It happened in late October.
A new job, my dream company, and a lack of time to focus. For 6 months I pushed myself to excel at my job. For 6 month I struggled financially hoping to reach the light at the end of the tunnel. For 6 months I invested my soul into trying to force a career to work that just didn’t. After 6 months, I left.
So here I am, on the cusp of 26, wallowing in student debt and adult responsibilities, working two jobs just trying to keep up. Here I am, engaged to the man of my dreams, surrounded by steadfast friends, and living with a complete lack of joy. Here I am, now 7 months after October, writing for the first time.
So what really happens when a writer loses their joy? In my case, a loss of joy led to a loss of creative expression and ultimately a loss of my true identity. I am a shell of my former self. The passion that I once felt for life has flickered out. In a place of complete desperation and depression, I have decided to come back to this. Writing. Allowing a stream of thoughts to fall out my swampy brain onto my computer screen. It’s not perfect, or even great, but it’s an attempt to regain my creative outlet…my hobby…my joy.
My lifelong struggle with anxiety and depression is a topic that I tend to stay away from out of shame or embarrassment but it is something very real to me. It is the reason that I stopped writing last October and it is the reason that I feel empty today. But the reason I am once again choosing to write is so those issues can live on a screen rather than within my heart or my mind. This morning, in the calm that I finally feel, I am reminded why I began writing almost 20 years ago. It is my safety net. It is my outlet. It is the sponge that absorbs the bad so I can feel the good. It is my source of joy.
At last, my soul feels ignited.