the life of zooey who happens to be Bipolar 2
I am behind. This is not to say I am procrastinating, really. More like the black dog is dragging my ass around, distracting me. I am unmotivated to write. To read what I know I need to get done. With a rather large amount of effort, I am writing this down. I am behind on what I want to get done more each day.
Often my black dog of depression whispers sour, horrible nothings in my ears. It points out my flaws, belittles me and scolds me for my actions. It helps me relive my past stupidity. Lately, the black dog just sucks whatever motivation I have left to muster with the vacuum of indifference and despair. I can hardly get myself to blog
This is not writer’s block. I have plenty to write about.
This is not me blaming my bipolar 2 on laziness.
The depression dog is pooping on the last bit of green in my yard.
And I let the fucker do it. I’ve fought it. Watered all of the bare spots in the grass and reseeded. I’ve attempted to landscape through blogging. I’ve mowed and pulled up weeds of doubt.
Over the past few years, I’ve grieved for my loss of visual creativity. I see artist friends creating and competing at shows where I use to go. I’ve watched them gather for fiber retreats and conferences. I’ve cheered them on as they’ve taught others. It’s gone. Writing is what I had.
Get off my lawn, you fucking dog!
And for those who wonder what I USED to do….and have scrolled down to the rock bottom of this blog: