My hair is starting to grow back. That's how I know things are turning around for me. I'm always a fan of talking about depression and anxiety and other mental illnesses, but I admit that, at the same time, it's been difficult for me to talk about this time in my life while I've been going through it.
Why? Mostly because it's exhausting. When I'm depressed, I don't want to do anything and I don't have the patience to sit there and tell someone I'm depressed and then have them try and fix me or ask me what triggered it or have them treat me tenderly when I just don't give a crap. It's wasted energy for them and me. At least while I'm in the thick of it.
But of course there was a trigger. Of course I want to be fixed. Of course I want to be loved. The problem is that with depression I just can't feel any of those things. That's the most insidious part, the part that people who haven't gone through significant depressions can't quite grasp. You're just numb. You think, "Oh, I should be feeling happy right now, so I better pretend that though I feel nothing." Or, "Oh, I should be mad, try being mad." "I probably should feel sad about this, but I literally do. not. care."
That's been my life since last November. Having no feelings.
It really all began when I realized that there was almost a 100% chance that I'd never be able to use my own name on a book again. That, due to my lackluster sales, I was already "washed up" as an author. As author Natalie Whipple. It took less than two years, really, though I tried so, so hard to pretend it wasn't happening in 2014…the year after I debuted. How quick the shine of authorhood can wear off. How swift the industry can declare you a failure. (And please, for the love, do not tell me it's not true and I'm amazing and all that crap. It only attempts to negate the feelings that were/are very real to me.)
I was mad. I was devastated. I was confused. And, ultimately, I was helpless to change any of it. I had tried—all the events and more books and pretending I was amazing and trying to sellsellsell. Maybe I could change it. Maybe I just wasn't working hard enough. Maybe…but no.
By October-ish of last year, I was spent in about every way. I'd used what little money I had to travel and market and indie publish. I used all of my creative power and killed the rest in this blitz of overworking myself. I used up all my feelings and hope and willpower. I had nothing left to give, so I cracked and broke and I didn't even care to pick up the pieces.
I tried to keep writing. Did NaNo. Did some contract work. But it only made things worse. I only broke into more pieces.
So I stopped writing. I ate a lot. Gained almost ten pounds. Slept at least 12 hours a day. I played my part at conferences, pretending that writing was still something I cared about and not something that had shattered me once again. I tried to keep my house and children cared for, but failed a lot. I started forgetting almost every conversation people attempted to have with me. I got shingles. That was fun.
And, I started gaming more. I've always gamed, but in this time when writing has become torture and not an escape, gaming has saved me. It's given me a place to go and hide, a place where I don't have to think about my life, a place where I can be safe while I work through all this shit. It's hard to explain to people who don't game, who think games are a waste, who don't understand what they mean to some people. But sometimes I think Guild Wars 2 saved my life. It kept me from going to uglier places, more dangerous thoughts. I got to meet people who didn't expect me to talk about writing and who didn't just see me as a writer.
Because it's really hard to be a writer who's not writing. The best I can equate it to is "being the single person in a room of married couples." Everyone's talking about how great marriage is, and what they're doing together, and their plans for their amazing future as an amazing adorable pukey couple. And you're single and kinda cool with it and you want to roll your eyes a lot.
But not only that, it's the questions and reactions. "So, what are you working on?"
Sweet murder, I hate that question right now. Because when I say, "Absolutely nothing." the reaction is exhausting. There's usually a pause. And then a "Oh, well…must be nice to be on a break." And there's this awkwardness in the air because what do we even talk about if it's not writing and books and publishing?
If I feel like really freaking out a debut author, I mention that I've even considered quitting and that my writing career is already shot two years in. You can see the fear in their eyes, the realization that maybe the same thing could happen to them. And then they run, run away as fast as possible. Probably because I have bad luck and they worry it might rub off on them. And, hey, it might. I don't blame them. No one wants to hear the kinds of things publishing has handed me. No one wants it to be them.
But my hair is growing back. I'm losing weight. I'm not sleeping all day and I'm finding meaning in things that aren't writing. My house is cleaner. My mind is waking up. Slowly, slowly, I'm starting to feel things again. The chill of fear. The heat of anger. The ache of sadness and the brightness of joy. And feeling…I have hopes that feeling will lead me back to writing.
At some point, at least.