I realized this morning that I no longer feel “tortured,” and I’m wondering if this is a good thing.
I think since I was a kid, I’ve bought into the BS idea that creativity and suffering are inextricably linked. Suffering from depression, along with having suicidal thoughts and swinging between a hopeless romantic and an ice fortress provided excellent fodder for my bulging notebooks. As long as I was sad, miserable, and chasing after people who probably didn’t want me, I couldn’t stop writing. The couple of times when I was happy? The wells dried up. But those didn’t last long. Another emotionally unavailable guy would present himself. My tattered clothes would get on my nerves. And I’d be able to write yet again.
I actually shunned going to therapy for years because I seriously thought that if I ever got “better,” I wouldn’t be able to write or do anything else creativity. Which, of course, is a lie. Yet it’s one of those things that you know on a conscious level, but deep down, you can’t bring yourself to believe it.
I was thinking earlier that to be tortured is to be constantly living in the past. Same with depression. It’s a constant replaying of horrible, traumatizing experiences. This idea that you aren’t better than those experiences. And it doesn’t matter that they’re not happening anymore, or right now. It’s like a bandage that keeps getting ripped off a fresh wound. Over. And over.
So here’s to moving forward! Even though time isn’t linear, it sure feels that way. And I’d much rather move forward than to be mired in backwardness.