I have large amounts of defects. One of them is a disease that has been in dormancy for nearly eight years, and I love every day of my sobriety. I’m constantly seeking emotional sobriety. During short moments, I find it, or uncover it, or release it. I also have a disease, or when I hate myself, a “defect,” called Major Depression along with digging through the riggers of Anhedonia, a persistently-present form of low-grade depression.
It’s June 2012 as I write this, and I’ve been busy with my second journey in blogging for about 18 months. On my first journey, I was all about politics, music, auto racing and other crap. This time, it’s about trying to live, or maybe about trying to survive, not to be overly-dramatic about it.
Virginia Woolf, a writer who is always right for my soul, put to words the ideas I believe about why writing has helped me get through some of the worst times when dealing with the depression:
“[…] and I make it real by putting it into words. It is only by putting it into words that I make it whole; this wholeness means that it has lost its power to hurt me; it gives me, perhaps because by doing so I take away the pain, a great delight to put the severed parts together. Perhaps this is the strongest pleasure known to me.”
I love music. I’ve had an avocation for music undoubtedly from the days in a cradle. I love visual arts, especially painting and architecture. I love writing that comes straight to me as art. It’s not mechanical, technical, popish and not all about the plot and stories. It’s about transforming who I am during the present moment and in some way who I am for the rest of my time. There aren’t a great deal of writers who write like artists. It’s easier and apparently better to write to sell.
David Foster Wallace, a more modern hero of mine, describes the kind of fiction (and poetry, for that matter) I love to read: “Fiction’s about what it is to be a fucking human being,” If I can write about what it’s like successfully enough that someone else gains comfort in knowing that another person experiences the world in a similar way, I will be very happy with my effort. Unfortunately, I can’t do it, but I sure try, and that’s what this blog is about.
I have a lot more to say, but it would bore you, and I think we’re all fatigued to a great extent with all of the memoirists, both on the internet and off. I might write an essay once in a while if I’m sure I won’t try to pontificate in the process.
I wish I could do this all of the time, but I’m not good enough to use it to buy my food and stuff, so I keep a day job which I like doing but which takes so much time from the day. I want to keep doing this because it is therapeutic. When I’m writing, the pain seems to dissipate, and it’s much better for me and society than when alcohol was the anaesthetic.
(Completely revised 6/2012)