I try to write when I can, but sometimes I take long breaks.  I’ve been working on my final film project which is coming out better than I hoped.  I’m still stressed and overthinking about all the work I still have to do and going through the thousands of things that could go wrong.  At least it’s the weekend.  I’m in a sort of limbo where I’m still working a normal job and making money, but doing other creative projects besides my film, which gives me time to decompress a little and reflect on how my life is going so far and I have to say, I’m happy the way things are turning out.  I’m making a film I want to make that I wrote and directed, I got paid to work on a film set for the first time, and looking forward to the next year where I get to move in with my best friend in LA.  To think that almost 2 years ago I was sitting on my bed in the middle of the night crying and looking up suicide hotlines.  To think about where I was then and where I am now makes me so thankful that I sought help.  I’m the happiest I’ve ever been and that’s saying a lot for someone who’s been depressed since age 12.  One of these days I’ll tell the whole journey, but for now, I’m gonna go to bed so I can wake up and do what I love.

Recently, I was writing down a scene with two character in a story that I’ve been working on for a while.  It takes place when they’re both in the vicinity of her family, much to her chagrin.  The male character asks her why she hates her mother so much because in the story, she never speaks to her mother.  This doesn’t reflect my relationship with my mother, we talk almost every day but it made me think about a few things because the female/main character answers, “I don’t hate her.  We’re just two different people.” I was shocked because that’s how I felt.  Then her/my ramblings continued, and this is what I came up with: “I realized a long time ago that the only way to tolerate my mother was to accept the fact that I couldn’t change her.  I was gonna have to love her for who she is, not yearn for the woman I knew as a child.  But for some damn reason I still hold onto that.  I want my mom to make me dinner and show me how to do my make-up and make me her number one priority but it was never going to happen.  And I just have to accept it because I’m an adult and I can’t keep wanting my mommy every time I have a boo boo.  Living makes it harder because she’s like the mother I never had, and her children take that for granted.  My mom was kicking drugs when I was being bullied in 5th grade, my mom told me for years that she was gonna get a place for both of us to live but by the time she did, I didn’t want to live with her because I let go of that dream years before, my mom loves everything else before me.  But somehow, I have to accept that.  Time heals all wounds, but how long is it going to take before my scars disappear.  My mother is by no means the cause of my mental illnesses.  Most of the people in my family suffer from depression or OCD.  But the early childhood trauma didn’t help.  I think nobody wants me around, but I have to keep telling myself it’s not true.  I can figure out with my logical mind that that people like me and want me around, but my emotions tell me different.  I don’t know.  I’m too tired to think anymore since I pretty much got everything off my chest.  For now, I’m going to go to sleep.”

And I feel better about putting this in a somewhat public forum because after watching an episode of Bojack Horseman, where he’s delivering a eulogy at his mother’s funeral, I realized that writing can affect people, especially when it comes from the heart.  Maybe someone reading this can feel better knowing that someone else knows what they’re going through and can put the feeling into words.  Hopefully someone can feel better, even if it’s one person.

Los Angeles has been an interesting experience for me.  Moving to a new city is already stressful enough, but pile on some unnecessary anxiety and you get random crying in the car because of all the traffic you’ve never experienced and low blood sugar which makes you even moodier than expected.  And that’s just been the first two weeks of school.  My anxiety usually manifests as overthinking, which I’ve managed to utilize in my writing.  Instead of thinking about the thousand different ways I could crash and die on the freeway, I can think of the many jobs a potential main character in my story can have.  I rarely get panic attacks, and when I do, the setting couldn’t be calmer.  I can get home from a stressful day of shooting (I’m currently a PA on an low budget film), sit down, get a glass of water, then watch as the world around me gets tighter and out of focus.  Some days I wonder how I’m even surviving.  The loneliness of moving to a new city is kicking in and of course my depression tells me that I’ll never make friends.  It’s even telling me that no one will ever pay attention to my blog (But I’m working on proving it wrong).  But I’ve been regularly telling it to shut the fuck up, which I’ve gotten a lot better at.  When you have a real passion for something, you’ll fucking work at it no matter what.  I moved to LA because I refused to let my anxiety win because I know I would regret it for the rest of my life if I didn’t.  I refuse to let my depression win because I know I’m worth more than my disease says I am.  For now, I’m going to keep filling up that gas tank because I have a ways to go.

My blog is finally created.  It feels like I’m selling out a bit but I guess it happens eventually.  I pictured myself being a great writing success at 20 (the age I’m currently at) with old fashioned methods.  I would would sit at my typewriter and send my stories by mail and get them published in paper magazines, but alas, I was born in the wrong decade.  For now, I am limited to a computer but that doesn’t bother me.  I wanted to create this blog to use as a creative outlet, but mostly I needed the attention and validation (that’s a half-joke.  Get used to my self-deprecating humor), and I thought it would be helpful to share my personal struggles with anxiety and depression.  Plus, I need to get in the habit of writing regularly.  I’m hoping, like most people willing to put their art out in the open, is recognition.  I’m not a flashy person and I rarely talk to people let alone have the courage to self-promote.  For now, I’m going to let my writing do the talking.

Thanks for joining me!

Good company in a journey makes the way seem shorter. — Izaak Walton