While I would not trade my mental wellness for anything (it’s pretty nice wanting to live, and pretty nice not planning your own death), with the departure of my illness my will to write creatively also seems to have fizzled. For more than 20 years I pretty much had one primary life outlook, and I observed with the eyes and ears of someone who couldn’t make the choice that suicide was off the table. That is a specific outlook, I think. It was one that felt natural to write with.
When I navigate my spaces now, there’s no running poet track, where I’m trying to capture every detail in my memory to write about it later. There’s not even a running blogger track. It’s like I’ve been stripped of one of the only things I’ve ever been good at (or at least happy with).
I declared I was going to apply for this writer’s grant and I sat down to write it, but it was hopeless. How do I defend my request of thousands of dollars so I can write? I think most writers struggle with that, of course, but the more I tried to write this application, the more I realized I kind of don’t care. And I don’t really have a ton to say right now.
It’s also weird because for a while I had all these things that seemed so NEWSWORTHY to write about. A ton of heartbreak, depression, and then my gender transition. I was able to write about these things compellingly enough that they stuck with people. But now it’s like, I’m pretty happy, I’m in a healthy relationship and I feel like I’ve said everything I want to say about transitioning at this point in my life. Old. News. I hope those things were not the most interesting thing about me, but sometimes I suspect they are.
I don’t really want to sound whiny, because again, it’s not like I want to go back, but my worldview was the same for 20 years and then it got shifted and everything I’m good at isn’t even a thing anymore. It’s a lot sometimes.
Maybe I can still write, but I need to squeeze it out of me. Maybe it’s just not going to be easy anymore.
Or maybe I’ll find something new to say.