I have been having a harder time writing than usual. It's hard to not be distracted and go every which way in my head or on Google.
It's hard to not be distracted and go every which way.
I need to write though, so I've worked on some other outlets that require a little less effort than here. I've tried my hand at a few tweets. I'm still working on it, and I need to be more visible on Facebook, I guess. But the one that I've gotten particularly excited about is a Q&A site called Quora. It is a lot of fun. I started out answering Grammar questions; I think I spent several hours one Sunday afternoon having the time of my life responding to questions about commas and word order and apostrophes. Perhaps it's the novelty that I like, but it's also true that people never ask you the questions you want to answer -- and there's never anyone around to answer a question of your own. Well, it's often true for me.
Michael Jackson. Prepositional phrases. The meaning of life. Babies and pregnancy. Lots and lots of questions you can get lost in. So much fun.
I may have said this before, but I think my mood greatly affects my writing. When I am at a high, I want to write constantly -- it's one of the parts of hypomania that I don't really mind, the seemingly endless creativity. I could write a book about elephants. And learn to illustrate comic books. And buy roller skates and 20 yards of fabric. And I could write about life on mars and what I think flies might think about us. And I could run down the street. Wash every dish. Plan months of meals. Make everything from scratch. Write about this and this and that and that.
Of course, it is not true that I only write during emotional highs. Writing during depression and in the in-between is not odd for me at all. It takes work, though. So, when the flood of ideas revs up, so much so that writing more than a few sentences at a time is more work than pleasure, then I may need to put down my long-form writing for a bit. And when the flood winds down to a mere drip, it's hard to go back to crawling through the process of creating something worthwhile again.
And when the flood winds down to a mere drip, it's hard to go back to crawling through the process of creating something worthwhile again.
The problem with writing quickly to keep up with quick thoughts is all the unfinished work you end up with -- and after the inspiration that would bring it to completion has long gone. It's one of the lies I have to learn to fight. I naturally say to myself that hyperactive me is a better me. It's not true, I know.
What do I want to believe about myself?
Well, let me see. The most honest answer is I don't know. I think I will always consider bipolar disorder a curse; I will never turn around and say, this is good, regardless of any perceived benefit I come up with at any given time. I hope to come to a point at which I can transition out of psychiatric help, replacing medications with successful coping. Beyond that, I want to consider myself wounded and also freed.
So, to keep me from becoming conceited because of the surpassing greatness of the revelations, a thorn was given me in the flesh, a messenger of Satan to harass me, to keep me from becoming conceited.
Many times, I've seen it over and over, grace, after falling into sin provoked by the weakness that is bipolar. Having to come to the Lord (again) after hiding away in my own mind for the day or thinking the wrong way about a girlfriend, has been life to me. I know what it's like to be without fully obvious, ongoing failure and sin -- obvious to yourself, that is -- in this life, it is not better. There is nothing there but conceit and death. Repentance needs specificity to mean anything at all.
Three times I pleaded with the Lord about this, that it should leave me. But he said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness."
I have asked over and over. Lord, help me. Lord, take this away. I've pleaded and begged and even demanded, I bet. Depression is lifted only to return again later. Ingrained dissociation still seems reasonable and invariably safe. Being involved with real people, loving and being loved, is still unreasonable and foolishly unsafe, something from which I must run.
For the sake of Christ, then, I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and calamities. For when I am weak, then I am strong. 2 Corinthians 12
I tell myself that hyperactive me is a better me.
As for writing, I am finding it is the same as with everything else -- I just have to start and then keep going. Keep going.