Winter makes me depressed, which sucks because I love the snow. But Seasonal Affective Disorder has disregarded my fond childhood memories. So on the first snow day, as is the tradition, I slipped on black ice and fell ass-first into a depressive episode.
SAD used to greet me with unpleasant thoughts and a bottomless pit of hopelessness.
Now it visits with stories upon stories and fingers too numb to write it all down.
An imagination on hyperdrive and backing up all my mental and physical functions.
Motivation leaking out through my joints.
A new kind of misery: laying in bed, watching the winter settle in, negotiating, I’ll write at one, at two, at five.
For me, depression is nothing.
The emotional equivalent of watching paint dry.
And I sit back in this wash of nothing and think: I have to write through this?
But I guess I always liked a challenge.