I’ve been off my long-time medications for about two and a half months, and off my last medication for a month and a half. My mind’s been wrapping itself around big things in an effort to stave off inward destruction. Today alone I’ve thought about fixing novel plots, managing this year’s gardening projects, my personal ethos, the problems with international relations, legal jockeying making its way into YouTube feuds, and my general distrust of all things social media.
That last one is something I need to get a handle on.
I’m not talking about a generic fear here. Rather, it’s getting a handle on how social media is shown to affect the human brain. Part of my mental health regime is to post stuff online. This means having to go online despite its hazards.
I wish I could say absence from participation in blogging has improved this, but it really hasn’t. All I’ve done is switch to different forms of Internet self-flagellation. Some of this could be a holdover from back when I played online games. I might have already been rewired enough even before I started blogging.
It also doesn’t help that I’m still relatively home bound. I don’t make money, certainly not enough to even spend much time outside the house. At best, I can travel into town three or four times a month to handle mental health appointments and meeting with my writing group. I don’t just go somewhere to hang out, because that most often requires cash.
Forcing myself to write more.
This has to be my best option. I can say from personal experience that I’m torn when it comes to forcing myself to write. The inevitable editing and submission process can destroy me as a person. It was manageable when I was on medication. Now, I’m not sure how it will play out. My hangups also can be the product of anxiety over past negative experiences.
Nonetheless, I do feel the urge to write as often as I ever have. Instead of just doing it, I would always think myself out of it. The excuses of telling myself I can’t put words next to each other feel limitless.
Rather than leave the thought here, I should try to carry it all the way back around. As I am typing this, I’m ignoring all the excuses I’ve made not to write today. My mind isn’t wandering as much. It stays happily in this one task, so long as my fingers continue punching the keys in a steady fashion. Putting it this way, I feel like writing is my own version of Sisyphus’s eternal labor, pushing a stone up a hill in Hades, watching it break as it nears the summit. Solace might not be found in the accomplishment of the task, but in the task itself.