I wanted to tear my hair out at many points during this day, but finally managed to finish the first draft of chapter 3 of my book. I have it printed out and ready to be attacked with my purple editing pen, but for this I must go someplace that is not my home – usually White Castle where I sit with my gigantic cherry Coke and get to edit in peace, because all the other customers use the drive-through.
It doesn’t seem this way when viewing my blog posts, which are invariably written in one sitting with no editing, but it is a real struggle for me to write now that I’m not even the slightest bit hypomanic. The words used to pour out. I used to be clever and witty and poetic. Now I manage to get one to two sentences on the screen before getting up to pace the floor and bemoan the fact that I’ve lost my creativity.
There is a real difference between the contents of the first couple of chapters, which were based heavily on things written while I had lingering hypomanic symptoms, and the contents of the newer chapters that I’ve forced my way through since becoming medicated into the land of unmotivated and boring. I have hopes that Brent will let go of the idea of using antipsychotics to keep me tethered to the ground and perhaps I’ll get some of my old spark back, but I’m equally worried that the next step, Lamictal, will place its own hindrances on my writing.
I’ve read numerous accounts of people feeling cognitively dulled and struggling to find the words they are looking for. I’m not even taking it yet and had a moment today where I stuttered through “I accidentally hit a button on my…my…my…what the fuck is this thing on my wrist called?” The frustration nearly exploded out of me. If I’m doomed to either that or sleeping 12 hours a day and feeling blah and unmotivated, which is worse?