But little did I know, my anxiety and depression had another plan.
You see, I've never been shy about sharing with anyone willing to read this blog. Ups and downs, I promised that I would remain honest and candid with all whom follow this journey. As long as I had the will to write and spark to succeed, I'd push until there was a debt to nothing left.
Over the latter part of 2015, I started to feel a type of lost that confounded me. So I pled the case (after trying whatever I could to stop it) and my somewhat new doctor prescribed an antidepressant/anxiety medication I'd never tried before. There was trepidation, but I was so tired of fighting, of feeling a sadness heavier than a child on my chest, that the idea of any help at all in this battle was met with a willing attitude.
The first four months were bliss, to my surprise. In fact, the tremors that caused my primary hand and arm to shake disappeared three hours after my first dose. I had energy again, my weight dropped and the anxiety (mostly social) blew away like sand in the wind. I'd felt happier than I had in months and finally slept more than two straight hours in a night. My appetite was better, goals seemed clearer than ever; the list goes on.
Then my youngest son choked and my dad had to have open heart surgery (which is where this blog left off). The brick wall of medication crumbled faster than a wafer. It was as if the chemical romance was no longer true. My mental and emotional balance were like the runner up on a season of "The Bachelor"; week after week I thought I was in love and this was my happy ending, rose after rose. Until I'm not anymore. Until the meds stopped working when the real challenges tested its voracity.
I never considered the rise up could (and would) have such a startling fall down.
Nor did I take into account the dwindling drive and creativity that has fueled me from the start. I was so enamored with the new high, I didn't notice all it was stripping in its path to sunshine. So when the mental blocks came, I passed it off as part of the stress. When I no longer had the desire to write--or work at all-- on the things that once brought me such joy, I again blamed the stress and empirically draining time. Not for lack of trying, I worked as much as I could, but it was far from the same.
I came to the realization and contacted my doctor. She agreed we should discuss in person, I made an appointment, only to go in and find I had yet ANOTHER new physician and she didn't want to take me off the evil. After arguing with this woman who only knew me on paper, she agreed to lower my dosage.
Since then, I've changed practices and I'm done with the evil. Guess what? Two weeks after I stopped it, I had my first spanking NEW story concept in forever. And I wrote and wrote and WROTE.
I'm me again.
With that all out and said, I will continue the blog. I am self-publishing a novel. But, and this is a big one, I will be doing so under a pseudonym. With the candor and truthfulness of my passages here, came a small price. I had a direct conversation with an agent who said though they appreciate my "no curtains" blog, it posed a possible PR problem. I won't get in to the rest (and it was a wonderful talk, truly), but I saw some validity to what was addressed. And since I don't want what I say and share to tarnish my chances in the publishing world, I'm going to test the waters a la pseudo and see where it goes.
Best of both worlds, I hope. At least to start.
Happy Holidays everyone. Love and peace. Be kind to one another. I'll see you soon. ❤