Once upon a time three or so months ago, I decided to do something creative. I wanted to make something expressive, to push my imagination back onto the proverbial treadmill. Just like me, it had gained a bunch of weight under the influence of crippling depression (and fast food) while living in Florida, and it didn't want to get off the couch, either. But we gave each other an inspirational pep talk, and by the end of it we had agreed to start this blog and cut Taco Bell out of our diet. Now, thirty pounds down, my old jeans fit again, and I'm happy to announce that vegetables and I have reconciled, and they have forgiven me for ignoring them for a year. However, my imagination is having a harder time transitioning back into its formerly active lifestyle.
It isn't that my imagination is being intentionally lazy. It tries. I can't tell you how many times in recent weeks I have opened a blank Word document, stared at it for thirty to sixty seconds, walked away from it, picked up a book, read a page, put it down, stared at the ceiling for ten minutes, decided I was simply not in the appropriate mindset to be effectively clever or entertaining, and gave it up as a bad job.
It seems appropriate to admit that after that last sentence, I walked away for two hours.
I think the biggest hurdle I have to jump is the debilitating insecurity that months of depression instilled in me. I spent a year convincing myself that my words were worthless, my thoughts inconsequential. The entire point of starting this blog was to convince myself that my voice has value. Now I just have to convince myself to press the "Post" button.
