Since I was nine I've wanted to become a science fiction author. I wanted to create worlds and explore amazing things, and over the years that has grown into something not entirely unlike my childish fever-dream. Of course, now that I'm verging on fifty years old, I am now wholly in touch with my depression.
...Not that awareness makes anything better.
Said depression about everything in my life, with diminishingly few redemptive aspects that just makes me even more depressed, is significantly reductive. It saps every last bit of will out of my soul, no matter how fiery and passionate I am about a subject, like writing or social justice or racial equality or anything good and fair, and I just drive, play video games, and watch stuff. To do anything else, to create, to work hard to achieve a goal, dredges up all of those things that push me to crawl under a rock and just stop being me.
I don't know how to break out of that cycle. People will tell me they know, and some will even offer such advice free of charge, but the truth is I don't lack the knowledge. What I lack is the backbone to endure the pain long enough to reap the reward. I stopped smoking after 35 years. I did it in one day. I switched to vaping in 24 hours. No fuss. No muss. It worked because there was no pain. I'd collected enough information and just did it.
Beyond that, I don't know how to fix anything any more. But I can type. And so I will try. I will always question my words, the order I say them in, how readers will react to them, and second-guess myself at every turn, but I will try.
I will try to post one piece of anything length every day.
I hope it works.