Rough Drafts & Neuroses
I have written and trashed two posts today. That makes this post number three. Yep, I am still chugging along, thinking I’m going to get something worthwhile written. I don’t know what’s wrong with me today, or why I feel like I NEED to get something up on here, but I have my suspicions…
It’s partly because I don’t like leaving my fiction in the number one slot for too long. I don’t want someone to visit here and think that’s my real life (even if I’ve labeled the post “Fiction” in the title. People are not to be trusted).
It’s also because I’ve been feeling weird lately. No, I’m not coming down sick. I think. No, I hadn’t been able to put my finger on what it is until a few days ago…
This feeling I’ve been experiencing? I think…I think it’s…happiness.
I KNOW. TOTALLY WEIRD, RIGHT???
Or if it’s not happiness per se, then it’s definitely well-being.
WHAT THE EFF, GUYS???
I’m not used to this. I have chronic, low-grade depression, which I’ve just learned to live with, so I’m used to feeling dissatisfied and mildly bummed out. I’m used to strife. I’m used to chaos. I always have something to bitch about. I am used to “powering through” and “making do” and “sucking it up.” I am not used to well-being. And happiness? That’s the relief I’d feel on the drive home from work everyday. It’s never been a sustained experience, at least for more than a few hours at a time (unless I’m wrapped in the cashmere emotional cloak traveling provides).
So of course I freaked out a little when I identified what I was going through, because unfamiliar experiences are always a little uncomfortable at first. Is this the way most people – meaning, those without a mood disorder – feel? I’ve got to be honest, it’s a little strange, feeling so peaceful.
I know exactly what it is, too. It’s no longer trying to squeeze into a role in which I just don’t fit. The heart-clenching anxiety I felt everyday? Gone.
Now I’m a tad worried. What am I going to write about if everything’s okay? Am I cursed to just discard draft after draft of mundanity? Or will I adapt to it, the way I adapted to unwanted dog-ownership? Or worse, will this well-being turn out to be a fleeting experience, like my experiment with vegetarianism?
I guess I can’t worry about it. That would be self-defeating. I’m not going to cling to it, either.
Instead, I’m going to go do the smart thing now. If you need me, I’ll be off enjoying my newfound happiness, for however long it chooses to stay.