Last year I discovered Nanowrimo, which for anyone not in the know is National Novel Writing Month. A month of writing and the mindfulness that goes along with string words together cohesively to tell a story that someone, somewhere may not only relate to, but could enjoy. I wrote last year in a fury and finished with the goal well behind me. I met some great folks locally and nationally who also participate in the challenge. Then, throughout the year, there were two camps in which I participated and wrote. Now, again, it's the big one and I haven't been able to write consistently. Even now, I have - who knows? four? unfinished projects lurking about in the hard drive and on notes in my purse and I haven't got the skill to put the words together for a cohesive sentence.
I know some would think this is writer's block and not bi-polar disorder and maybe it is. Maybe I don't know how to classify this lack of production and success?
And to intensify the feelings of absurd uselessness is the constant reminder from people that I have talent.
Yesterday I was given accolades on my skill and experience and then questioned why I would be willing to work in the same environment as they. Last week (or the week before) I was told a similar thing, requesting the work I do with a puzzling question of why I would even consider lowering myself to their mediocrity. I just need to work. I need to produce something that gets to the end of whatever needs to be done to complete the job. Why is that so hard for people to understand? And the constant reminder that I'm more than I am is daunting because the caliber of work I can do is not available to me. So, I should work for myself only and get the stories from my head onto a page to share with all these people who are insulted that I sit with them, yeah? Except the words don't come out that easily because they get stuck in the uncertainty and lack of motivation.
I'm just annoyed that no one is giving me a chance to be something that I can be, because they feel that I'm something more than I am.
And that stinks.
It stinks that I sink into my brain knowing I'm not as good as what people have said and have not by any means projected myself to be more than I am and still the perception is that I don't belong. I neither belong in the rank and file or the elite echelon.
So it occurs to me that it is Tuesday and that means two more days until there is a new round of judgement that I don't want to face. It's year two. It is the second year that my family will not be completely together for Thanksgiving and regardless of all the pieces that come together, those that are missing are like holes in the quilt that is sewn together with stuffing and turkey and cranberries. It's not alone for sure, but it's an incompleteness. It's being mindful of all those that are missing instead of those who are there. And it stinks.
I'm trying to be grateful, but hearing that I'm not enough and feeling that I don't have enough ... well, it's not very gratifying.
Knowing that most people take this time of the year to look at what they have instead of notice what they don't, I'm considering also being a missing piece. I'm considering letting the depression part of this stupid disorder envelope me and be my companion for ramen noodles and hibernation. I just don't understand any of it any more. How are there days when I feel like I've accomplished so much and I can point out that which makes me great and other days when I feel I'm no more than the six year old crying because I can't figure out my homework and know there is no one to help me?
I truly hope it's the bi-polar and that next week (or maybe even tomorrow?) I'll be manic again, ready to take on the world with a bourbon pie.