In a rather unpleasant bit of life irony, this article is about writing while depressed. That’s not the ironic part, the irony comes from the fact that it was due a day before I sat down to write it, and the reason I didn’t write it on time is because I am going through a mild depressive episode, one that results in perpetually lying in bed — staring at the ceiling, unable to accomplish anything.
I put this article on my to-do list for days. I stared at that list for days. I’ve got to do this. I need to do this. This has to be done. Ultimately, I rolled over, closed my eyes and just breathed.
That’s just how it happens. Depression is one of those things that you can’t control. You can do everything in your power to mitigate its effects – medication, therapy, exercise, good diet and practicing all the self-care in the world — and sometimes the illness will just overwhelm you. It takes over your mind, but also your body.
So what is this article about? Is it about the elusive tortured artist? Romanticised by society, beauty born of struggle, wrought of madness. I’d be hard-pressed to find a creative stereotype I despise more. Frequently pictured in film and TV, the tortured artist teaches people that prolific work can’t be produced unless one is battling demons, deeply gripped by alcohol or other substances, or struggling under the enormous weight of mental illness. As a writer who does live with mental illness, I can confirm that such struggles have, in no way, shape or form, improved my work. On the contrary, they often leave me feeling demotivated and ashamed.
How do I combat this feeling, this total loss of motivation? I read what I wrote to myself once. Here goes.
I want to give you the fluffy pep talk that I think you want to hear, but to me, it would be dishonest. Trust that this comes from a place of caring and that I want only the best for your health and your writing. There is no such thing as “wanting” to write, there is only ‘writing’, and ‘not writing’. All the things we do chasing the fantasy that they are some way in service to our creative outlet are all rubbish. We all do them, far be it from me to try to say I’m above it; but, going to the coffee shop, or a run, or a snack, these are just diversions. Know that the only thing that gets you writing is sitting down with your paper/computer and doing it. If that is daunting or unhelpful, maybe simply sitting and staring at a blank canvas will get your mind going.
Here’s where the good news starts: there also is no such thing as ‘bad writing’, anything you create honestly, has value. If you hate what you just wrote, that’s just your internal critic, that insidious guy just wants to drag you back into a safe little space for him to crawl into and never make anything or do something that might endanger him. And he’s way bigger and way stronger when you’re depressed, but at the end of the day, all you have to do is get over yourself and stop worrying about disappointing your critic.
This is the same advice for ‘no ideas’–because writers block is just your critic telling you an idea is useless the second you have it, rather than letting it grow and become something unique and interesting. Give an idea permission to be useless for a bit, you’re going to spend a lot of time watering that seed and see where it takes you.
I’m in no way qualified to give you advice on your depression, but for me, it’s a matter of overwriting the part of my brain that tells me “I don’t want to do that/I can’t because XYZ”, even when I know empirically that I do want to do that/will feel much better after I do, and go do it anyway. It doesn’t feel like a jog will make me feel better, or maybe I feel too tired, but I do it anyway, its 30 minutes out of my day, and it helps me be an otherwise operational human being. The same is largely true for writing, waiting around until I have to write is inconvenient at best and basically a fantasy, the only way to write, is to sit down and write.
Writing through depression is a tricky one. It’s okay to not be okay. You have to do what you can to maintain your health, so that you can stay alive and keep sharing your stories. Because you know what? They matter. They really, really do.
Written by Rhea Baweja
Week 44, October ‘20
