Am I a writer?

I haven’t done much more than drink coffee and take a shower, which both seem to be an accomplishment given how I have been feeling lately. The weird mood has ceased and I am back to my depressed self. I am not thinking about harming myself but it is in the back of my mind. I am listening to the same country music songs over and over. It’s a compilation of artists that suit my fancy, from The Band Perry, Taylor Swift, Luke Bryan and Blake Shelton to Daughtry, Goyte, and Rob Thomas.

I should be working on my introduction but have decided today is my Sabbath and I am not going to work, other than write my daily blog. I thought about doing some editing but I am just not up for it. I should make a table of contents. I might do that later.

I just can’t seem to get motivated today. I woke up in pain. I don’t know if I was sleeping wrong or my foot just decided it was time to get up, but it has been throbbing since eight this morning. I guess the pain meds that I took before bed wore off. But the pain didn’t deter me from taking a shower. And I rested after I took a shower because I am not going out today.

Thanks to a fellow blog reader, she found me the blog that I was looking for yesterday. I added it to the grief section of my book. I still have to come up with another three thousand words or more now. Just 3,000. Oh boy. I don’t know if I can do it. I know the ending is partly done as I am going to stick in the future blog in it with what I got already. Now I just have to work on the introduction and call it a book. I started the intro yesterday but didn’t get too far. Words were coming out like I was pulling teeth. I only wrote a page and a half and that took quite a bit of effort. I don’t know why words come easily to me at times and other times it so painful. I know when I am feeling content, I don’t write at all. It’s only when I am darkly depressed or slightly depressed that I can express myself. Reading Touched With Fire again is confirming this. Though I don’t really consider myself a writer, if only because I have not published anything formally. I know my therapist will bring up the paper and poem I had published when I was a teen but I don’t really count that as writing. Well, maybe. If I could find the book I am sure I could tell.

Thing is, I never wanted to become a writer. Sure when I was reading Star Trek: TNG books, I thought I could write one but it always seemed out of reach for me. I wanted to study medicine, to help other people. But when that went up in smoke, I just quit. I suffered and I managed a job that at times I hated for fourteen years. I wasn’t making big bucks working at the hospital. Decent money sure with benefits and all, but it didn’t make me happy. I did the work of three people and still managed to do it accurately. It makes me sad that I can no longer work at that job, least not when my foot is still the way it is. And because of my mental illness, I am not sure I can really hold a job again. I probably could hold a part-time job, but even that will take some doing. I know that I can’t work as a barista at Starbucks because there is too much standing and lifting. But I might be able to get away with it for a couple of days a week. But I don’t know if I want to go back to retail. I swore after my days of Somerville Lumber, I would NEVER go back. I couldn’t stand the bitchy customers who would argue over a nickel or penny difference. I so wanted to reach in my pocket and give them a dime, just so they would leave!

But when the time comes for me to look for work again, I hope that I am well enough.