Losing my Writing

I don't write as much as I used to. I miss it, and that's why I make the effort to keep up this blog, recording my progress in Life, but I don't write anything else anymore. I'll still get an idea for something I want to write, and I'll tell myself that when I'm at a loose end, I'll write it... but I never get the compulsion anymore.  Instead my brain goes back to the things I don't want to write about, the things I'm trying to distract myself from.

Life with My Brain

Ever since I was a child, my brain has enjoyed words. It would fixate on things, and words were a way of articulating the obsession. My brain ruminates, thinking repetitively and often unproductively—at absent moments, the same sentence can recur to mind for years at a time, like an in-media-res first line of a story. It's nothing profound or clever. Take a preadolescent example: "She screamed." This was simply the trigger for a pleasingly dramatic imagining of why she screamed. What led her to the traumatic situation? How did she escape? The general events remained the same each time, as I fine-tuned the dialogue and struggled to achieve a satisfying ending (always the most elusive part of the process).

As a child, I built fantasy worlds and dreamed up epic stories that I kept in my head. As an adult, I learned to touch-type and discovered the joys of writing out and sharing my feverish thinkings, both fiction and philosophy. (Unlike many writers, I don't enjoy writing by hand... I'm slow, awkward and ultimately self-conscious with a pen.) 

For my entire adult life, my primary hobby has been writing to the internet, I'd gleefully delve into the minutia of a TV show or book series with likeminded fans. I'd write longform (very longform!) pieces on whatever I was currently passionate about. I'd collaborate with other writers, indulgently sparking off each other. I'd record my life, for friends, family and my own memories.

Often, this worked to get the words out of my brain. It didn't necessarily make it any more productive as it would just switch to a new rumination, but it gave me satisfaction that I'd expressed my feelings.

The Dark Side of Rumination

Psychologically speaking, rumination is often a consequence of depression and anxiety, where you will worry about something you can't change over and over again. When I did a cognitive behavioural therapy course at the beginning of the year, that taught us to distinguish between productive worry (when you can address and solve a problem) and rumination (when you can only dwell on what's wrong). We learned coping mechanisms to distract us from the rumination and push through it.

My life has generally been very sheltered so my rumination was almost never on bad things. Even when I went through difficult periods, my brain was at least as likely to ruminate on more pleasant fantasies or trivia. I could sit at my laptop, writing my obsessions and escape the worries of the real world for a little while.

It was only when my marriage ended that my brain fixated on the source of my depression and anxiety. For over two years, absent moments have triggered thoughts of him, what-if memories, anger at others and loathing of myself. True to the habits of a lifetime, I've tried to write the ruminations out of my head, but everything's failed. I've kept a private journal for myself, I've poured my heart out on this blog and I've cried on the virtual shoulders of friends. That gave me some satisfaction for six months or so, but I became disillusioned as I grew aware that neither my feelings nor the situation were changing. 

I stopped writing, and the feelings bottled up instead, until I had to vent either to friends, or on here, or—far worse—in desperate emails to him that were met with either silence or mortifyingly short and trite responses.

I still have to vent occasionally, but I'm getting better at distraction. It keeps me out of depression holes and allows me to function relatively normally. I've started to view myself as a happy person again. But distraction also doesn't change the situation or my feelings about it, so that's still what my brain returns to.

Death of an Author

That's why I can't write, and it's also why (or perhaps one reason why) I never quite feel like myself anymore. I've lost a few associated habits too. For example, I always enjoyed doing jigsaw puzzles which helped focus my mind in its ruminations and work through writer's block. Doing a jigsaw puzzle now is liable to put me in a funk.

I'm not quite sure if I need to redefine who I am or wait until something finally takes my brain to a different track. Either way, the right path is to carry on going through the motions of Self-Care and Progress. They have a real effect, even if my motivation is sometimes forced.

There are days when I don't care. I just miss writing,