The Blinking Cursor

Well. I have big news. It’s going to seem like work news. But really, it’s mental health news.

I haven’t been able to write the way I used to since I was medicated for my mental illness shit. My brain doesn’t work the same way. The meds make my brain foggy. I forget words. Don’t even ask my family about my memory.

The last book I finished writing was “Are You There God? It’s Me, Mommy.” My publisher rejected it and wanted a complete rewrite. On a book I had worked on for 10 years. TEN. YEARS.

I had the conversation with my editor and my agent while still sitting in the circle of chairs in the group room where I was a patient in an  Intensive Outpatient Program for a major depressive episode. 

Let that sink in.

Everyone had left for the day. My notes from the day’s group session were still in my lap, resting on  the blanket I brought everyday because it was so cold in the room. Empty chairs in a circle. And me, being told AGAIN that what I had written wasn’t good enough. And no clear direction. No marked up manuscript with edits or helpful suggestions. Just “No, we don’t like it. Start over. You talk about your depression, go darker…”

Darker??? Darker than being away from my husband and kids for 2 months while I struggled to feed myself everyday? My entire team of doctors and therapists said no way. I was trying to walk out of the darkness, not toward it.

I asked to be released from my contract and spent the next few years feeling like a complete failure. Then I was medicated and every change in prescription and dosage was like twisting a kaleidoscope. Just a twist too far in either direction and my entire outlook shifted, side effects waxed and waned. Sleep was either elusive or all-consuming.

I found a way to be happy again. To be stable. To interact with people and to take care of myself and my kids. To cook dinner and occasionally exercise.

But I couldn’t write. I tried. It was all shit. I wanted to share my mental health journey but I couldn’t look back into the darkness. It was still too close. So I stopped trying. I decided if I was never able to write again, I was okay with it. I mean, I wrote ‘A’ NYTs best-seller– that should be enough. A dear friend, and one of my most trusted readers, Jodi, said to me once, “Nobody makes fun of the guy that ONLY climbed Everest ONCE.” Still makes me laugh. And I held onto that.

Good mental health requires upkeep. So when we moved to Auburn, I found a great therapist and we started from the beginning. The beginning of me. And although it seemed nearly impossible, one of my goals was to write again. Even though opening my computer to a blinking cursor made my heart race and my stomach drop. My therapist made me use the same program I used for writing my books for my grocery lists. Just to get over that fear of the blinking cursor and the blank page. 

I started outlining essays and saving tidbits of dialogue and observations on my phone. Just like I used to on napkins and notebooks stuffed into diaper bags when I was writing ‘Ketchup.’ Little by little, I added notes and said to myself– if this is just for me to remember, that’s enough.

The girls are doing remote school, they’re home every morning, quietly working. So I decided to join them. I told them my goal was to work on one essay a day and I would only work while they were working. 

This morning I sat down to start transcribing my notes into documents. On a blank page with a blinking cursor that no longer makes my chest ache and sweat bead on the back of my neck.  After 2 hours, I had outlined 32 essays. Thirty two. That’s a whole book’s worth. 

From outline to publication, ‘Ketchup’ took five years to finish. I have no idea how long this will take. I have no idea if it will be published and if it is, if I  will self-publish or go back to my publisher… I don’t know. And that’s okay. Because I am SO DAMN PROUD OF MYSELF.

Mental illness is horrible. There are no words. The meds. The side effects. The meds for the side effects. Insomnia. Sleep hygiene. Med checks. Therapy appointments week after week after week after week. But it got me here. And that is truly enough.