Blank Pages

A blank piece of paper is God’s way of telling us how hard it is to be God.
– Sidney Sheldon

I do not recall where I heard it or who it was that said this to me but I remember the words: "It doesn't matter what you write or if anyone will ever read it. If you are a writer then you must write." I'm hoping that was an actual person that said those words to me and not a voice in my head. (I don't actually hear voices in my head. I just talk to myself a lot.) That being said, it is sound advice. Advice I have been ignoring. Looking at the time stamp of my most recent blog, it has been three months since I've written anything down. My journal has even more blank pages.

Image of a book with words on pages being turned eventually
eventually revealing blank pages.

What's worse than that is that the story of my life seems to have an eerily similar lack of syntax. I don't know where I went wrong or what's wrong with me in the first place. I should be married and/or have children. I should have a career. I should GIVE A FUCK by now! I know that something is wrong but can't figure it out on my own nor figure out how to ask anyone for help. I don't know if it's pride or fear that stops me. All I know is that, no matter how motivated I am for a project or an adventure, I will always ride that wave out and end up back here. I end up back where I started. I end up back in this state. This...quicksand. I wish I could say I was drowning in it but it's worse than that. It's just holding me in place and won't let me go.

Too often, while I'm not suicidal in the slightest, I contemplate my purpose in life. I try to tell myself that I am an important cog in the machine but sometimes I wonder. Am I? Have I made a difference? Have I contributed to society? Am I really that important to anyone? Am I needed? And then, when I look back on those questions, I ask myself if I care about the answers to those previous inquiries and the answer is a thunderous NO. However, I know that is only a momentary feeling. Deep down inside, I do care about those answers. If not, why then do I constantly ask myself those questions?

I know this is depression. I've been studying its symptoms with greater scrutiny as of late thanks to the counsel of a dear friend. I know it would be easier if I actually went to a professional but, well, Cura te ipsum. (Luke 4:23) I've wanted to conquer this dragon all on my own for so long so I could say that I did heal myself but I feel like I've been trying to solve an unsolvable puzzle and, as it happens with a game with too many insurmountable goals and challenges for an extended period of time, one begins to grow weary of the game. Sometimes, I don't want to play anymore. However, I have to keep playing, don't I? I still have stories to tell. There are still many blank pages left and far too much ink in my well to stop writing now.