Sometimes life just kinda shits the bed. There’s no other way of putting it, really. I think for many, that’s been the theme of 2017. I’ve been silent for the better part of this year simply because I’ve found myself without words. It’s not the most comfortable predicament for a writer, as you can probably imagine. Depression has a way of doing that to you, although I’ve been reluctant to really talk about it. Everyone’s been having a bad year, who needs to hear about more misery?
I certainly don’t. Currently, I find myself in a position of starting over. It’s not the most reassuring position to be in on the precipice of turning 30. I’m not currently gainfully employed, the situation at my last job having become untenable for my mental health. So where does that leave me right now? Well, it feels a lot like I’m trying to put together one of those monstrous 1000 piece puzzles, except this one didn’t come in a box with a nice glossy version of what the completed puzzle should look like. Instead, it’s in a worn ziplock baggie with no way of knowing if all the pieces are there, or if all the pieces even come from the same puzzle. And I’m just here trying to find those pesky side pieces, hoping that I’ll somehow be able to make all these disparate pieces fit together into something that more closely resembles a career than Frankenstein’s Monster.
It’s not all bad, though. I’m feeling hopeful, and maybe that’s all I need.