Putting Out the Fires In My Brain

 I could feel it slipping away on a daily basis. A little bit here, a little bit more there. No matter what I did, no matter what I said, no matter how often I said it, part of me was shutting off. It was the part of me that wanted to write fiction, my first love in writing. In fact, it was my whole desire to create.

Fighting that recession of creativity was dragging me into an abyss of no escape, and it was binding me with heightened anxiety, fear, anger, and a whole host of other unpleasantries. Tammie described me as being "a bit explosive and easily agitated." She's not wrong, but nothing I did could change it. Oh, I tried. I did my very best to squelch those feelings of fear-fueled rage, but it was exhausting and all it took was a few minutes of low blood sugar and I became a seething, weeping, very loud bitch. Being in public meant shutting down to a level low enough that I could manage to at least get to the car before melting down. 

After getting to the point where I could no longer ignore what was happening, I reached out to my doctor. I answered a bunch of questions on their check-in website and set off a bunch of alerts and red flags. She said it was a good thing I was already scheduled for an appointment, or they'd be calling me in posthaste.

We discussed a lot of things from feelings to frustrations and we both agree that the current political climate is a bit on the toxic side and would definitely contribute to anxiety and fear. It was when I told her about my writing and lack of focus and desire to create, she stopped typing and looked at me.

"It sounds like there's more going on here. Have you ever been diagnosed with ADHD."

"Not officially," I told her and she laughed. 

"Of course, not. You're over 60 and you're female."

After more discussion, we decided on a treatment plan, and she prescribed ADHD medication. We both agree that if I can get some of this ridiculous scattered-brain bullshit to settle down, it might have the same effect on my anxiety. So, I'm not on anti-anxiety medication, I'm on ADHD medication, but guess what...It's working for both. I've been on it for less than a week, and Tammie has noticed a huge improvement. So have I, but I've been afraid to say anything in case it was just a case of a visit from the delusion fairy. I had that with some OTC holistic herbal woo-woo pills. Three days of "Hey, I think I've got this," then BAM! The bitch is back and she's super annoyed.

Now, I find myself having feelings again. Oh, I've been having feelings for a long time, but usually I'm feeling ALL THE THINGS, ALL THE TIME without respite. Lemme tell you, that's a lot of work and I was sure it would eventually try to kill me with worry, fear, rage, depression... all the fun stuff. But lately, I've been experiencing good feelings like...joy. Real joy, not that "oh, whee, we're gonna crash and die. At least I won't have to pay taxes anymore" kind of "joy" but rather a pleasant sensation while looking at the sunlight touching the leaves of the Rhodie out front, or the smell of fresh-brewed coffee, or the sound of the red-winged blackbirds calling out to "vote for Peeeeeter." 

Plain old joy, with no tinge of fear, worry, frustration, or general overwhelming angst of all the things. Just a soothing calmness. Gods, I like that.

I don't remember the last time I've felt that way, if ever. I realize now that most of my life has been riddled with this bullshit anxiety/ADHD and nothing was ever done. All through school my report cards would read things like, "Karen is easily distracted and has a hard time paying attention" or "Karen needs to spend less time daydreaming and more time on her work in class." Nothing was done, of course, because Karen is a girl and only boys need medication for "hyperactivity," girls just gotta knuckle down and PAY ATTENTION!

When I was an adult, I went the typical anti-depressant medication route, but my brain rejected them in the most interesting ways andafter a few years of trying to find a solution, we (my former healthcare provider and I) gave up. If it didn't try to kill me, it just intensified my craziness, and all of them removed my emotions and killed my creativity. I was living the zombie life, and I wasn't ok with that.

I mentioned all of this to my current doctor, and she said we'd start with this adhd medication and go from there. But you know what? I think we're there. I'm comfortable in my head. I can deal with the little frustrations that would at one point turned me into a raging honey badger with a toothache. It's not perfect, but I'm able to stop myself from saying things that aren't kind or helpful, whereas before the pills, I would just be rude and obnoxious and unable to stop myself. Knowing I can do that and not explode with frustration is kind of nice. 

I can slow down the spiral into the dark abyss of dismal thoughts and redirect my emotions to a more positive path.

I know I can have boundaries and use gentle words to let people know when they're crossing them, instead of waiting until later and losing my shit all over the place, or simply over-reacting in a very inappropriate manner.

Planning things has never been a problem, yet the problem came when implementing said plans: I knew I had to get from point A to point D, but I couldn't visualize all the steps needed to get there, at least not without a struggle that could last for weeks. Now, I can see what needs to happen and take appropriate steps. This includes such tasks as taking out the garbage. Sometimes the simplest tasks would stymie me to the point of tears, and it was getting worse with age. 

I feel better. I feel like I'm becoming the person I was supposed to be all along. I'm not there yet, but there's a plan, I'm on it and so far, so good.

Now What, November?

 October has traditionally been the month I start planning and semi-plotting my project for November's annual write-a-novel-in-a-month activity. I've been doing it for several years (going on ten, I believe), and it's one of those things that both energizes and stresses me out to the absolute maximum.

Especially those little badges they give out for reaching certain mileposts of word counts, making your daily goal, never miss a day of writing or posting, whatever. November is a difficult month to do that because there are holidays and birthdays and family stuff and, well, I always felt a little guilty slipping away to get some words written and posted to the site before jumping back into whatever fray was happening at the time.

Then things got...dark. I've not followed it too closely, mostly for my own mental health, but the gist of it is that the powers that be believe using AI to help write the damn novel is ok.

Now, to be perfectly clear and honest, I use AI when writing. Those red squiggles under my misspelled words, that's AI. The grammar suggestions that I may or may not ignore, again, AI. And my favorite? The "read aloud" thing on my word processor. Let me tell you, I can read my stuff over and over and it's fine. I can even read it out loud and it sounds fine. Why? Because I know where to put the inflections, I know what words are supposed to be there. But, when I have the computer read it to me, that bitch catches all my boo-boos. All I have to do is fix the part that doesn't sound good, and ta-dah! It's the way I want it.

But I do the work. I do not allow AI to do anything more than make a suggestion on whether or not that comma belongs in that spot, or if one of those words is extraneous. I still make the final decision. In that regard, I'm fine with AI. 

Allowing it to do most of the work, however, is where I draw the line. I don't want to just hand over my idea and let the machine put all the words together. That's not writing. There's no blood. There's no weeping. There's no yelling. There's no smell of fear or rage, or that sweet, sensuous feeling of the perfect sentence flowing from your brain to your fingertips. 

In regards to using AI for art, I'm kind of in the same camp. I cannot draw, and I'd love to see "pictures" of my characters, or the places they've been. If I could figure out how to use an art AI program, I'd probably have it show me those things according to my descriptions to see if what I say is what others might see. But would I sell that piece of art? No. Would I use it for the cover of my book? Again, no. 

That's where I'm fortunate to know several artists who will, for a fee, work with me on creating covers for my books. I appreciate those skills they've gathered over years of practice and study. I've taken art classes, but I still can't put the pictures in my head on paper and have it make sense. That's what artists do, and I'm thankful for them.

AI has a place in the world of art and writing. Even music, if you think of the synthesizers as AI. I'm not sure I do, but I'm sort of clumping a lot of computer stuff into the category of AI, so that might be where I'm derailing my brain train.

All this to say, I'm not sure what to do with myself next month. There will be no piles of sunflower seed shells near the keyboard; no packages of lemon drops stuffed in the spot next to the tower; no cups of cold tea or coffee on the desk; no drifts of scribbled notes piling up against the printer. 

Oh, who am I kidding, my writing area always looks like that, but in past Novembers, it just felt different, like it all had meaning. It always felt so magical, knowing thousands of writers were out there, doing the same thing at pretty much the same time. No spontaneous conversations in chat rooms about rabbit trails, plot holes, or being written into a corner of which there's no escape. I'll miss that ethereal comradery.