I wake up groggily from a nap, and bolt upright, running to the bathroom. I’m gonna throw up. No I’m not, yes I am, no I’m not. I’m hot, burning up. I’m never hot. I always have ten pounds of clothes on. People in the office are always making fun of me, saying I’m ready for a blizzard. I grab a paper towel, and soak it with cold water. Dab my face with it. A knock comes at the door. “Are you okay?” he asks, and I answer that yes, I’m fine.
I haven’t written in a while. I’ve written about 10,000 words in a new book I’m working on, but I haven’t written anything publicly. No blogs or articles or anything like that. There’s a reason for that.
Depression has debilitated me lately. It has convinced me that I have nothing good to say, nothing notable; it has convinced me that my voice isn’t worth anything. That the things I write don’t help anyone, so why bother? Does anyone care?