What Do You Need To Do?
Every day I hear myself saying it: “I really need to….” and then fill in the blank.
Do laundry.
Clean the house.
Catch up on emails and “desk” stuff.
Put my phone down and do something productive.
Grocery shop.
Shower.
Go for a walk.
Write.
When you’re someone who lives with depression, on the darker days, even getting out of bed can be something that goes on the “to-do” list.
The truth is, all of those things are important and all need to get done. Some can be pushed a little farther down on the list if the day is particularly rough. Trust me, my laundry could tell stories of how it takes over the bedroom floor!
The one thing, though, that I really need to do is write. I need to write. I really need to write. One more time, Rachel:
I. Really. Need. To. Write.
And yet, I can avoid writing as easily as I can avoid doing the laundry. I run from it. And I am not a person who runs (anyone who knows me can tell you that).
Why? Writing is my safe place. It is my refuge, my sanctuary. It is the place I can settle into, where I can be my Truest, most Authentic Self. Oh….wait….I think I just figured something out….
After more than seven years of working on it, my book was published in April of 2021.
When I got word from the publisher that the printed copies were ready for pick-up, I was beyond thrilled. My “baby” was born! It was real!
I brought the boxes home and began individually signing and packaging them up to go out into the world. Into the hands of my friends, loved ones, and those I had not met yet. It was real. My story was being shared.
And then it hit: Oh, dear lord. My story is being told. My secrets are coming out. My Truest and Authentic Self is going to be Seen by the world. Or, at least, parts of the world.
For some folks, this would be a thrilling proposition. In our “look at me” culture, some people thrive on being seen (little “s”) without allowing themselves to be Truly Seen (big “S”). The difference? One is a safe place to hang out. Superficial. Insubstantial. That would be the former of the two. The latter? That one is more vulnerable, more risky. Scarier. Ultimately, though, it is the one that matters more.
It matters very much.
Again, as someone who lives with (wrestles with, negotiates with, occasionally has to yield to) depression, being Truly Seen can be terrifying.
When I was twelve, after my Dad suddenly died, I was sent to a child psychologist. One of the best in her field, bless her heart. As she sat there across from me, filled with Compassion, I asked her why I was there. She explained the process to me. I responded with a simple question: “Will talking to you bring my Dad back? Can you bring my Dad back?” She replied that she could not.
I remember smiling at her and saying, “Then what is the point of any of this?”
The thought of showing her my brokenness, sharing my inner terror at living in a world without my Dad, the searing sadness that was destroying me from the inside….That was simply impossible. That level of vulnerability was paralyzingly frightening for me.
She couldn’t help me. No one could.
Writing could, though. And so, I wrote.
I wrote stories, plays, songs. I kept a journal. I would write all of the time.
It didn’t heal me, in a traditional or therapeutic sense. In fact, on some occasions, I think it kept me trapped inside my isolated darkness.
This was ok with me, though. Because I felt safe in there. Safer than out in the world.
I remember, one time in high school, I snuck away to write about whatever sadness was tormenting me that day. I thought I was somewhere I wouldn’t be found.
I was found, though. I got “caught” by someone who accused me of “trying to get attention” by what I was doing. I thought, how ridiculous. The LAST thing I wanted was attention. That was why I was hiding to write.
I already knew how to get attention. I was quite skilled at that. My outer persona was brilliant at getting everyone to see me. Mostly, as a distraction so that none of them would actually See me (little “l” versus Big “L” was a thing for me even back then. Even though I hadn’t learned that way of thinking yet).
It wasn’t about “getting attention.” It was about finding a way to stay alive. More often than not, the writing was the only place where the argument between the depression pulling me under and the desperation to reach the surface could safely take place.
Nothing else worked as well as writing for fighting that battle.
Writing saved me. It still saves me.
Writing reveals me.
Writing scares me, invites me, challenges me, calls to me, threatens me, dares me, taunts me, tempts me….
No matter how much I try to avoid it, no matter that it can’t bring back those I miss, no matter that it can’t magically change or “fix” anything….
It is what I need to do.
The laundry can wait one more day. I’ve got soup in the cupboard so, groceries can wait too. A walk….well, that will happen at some point, I’m sure.
Really, though, everything on my “to do” list can hold off for just a little bit, because….
I need to write.
I really need to write.
What do you need to do?
