A writer’s block has been my plague that lays with me in my cold bed each night as I stare at the ceiling and wonder where my creativity has gone away to. Why was I not able to sleep as easily as I once was, but instead paralyzed by my crippling anxiety that twisted each word in my head against me forcing me to stay awake until eventually I collapse from exhaustion into the arms of my lover. This alone was enough to force me to keep my eyes open and my mind buzzing. But then I dig deeper. When I have reached what sounds like a clunk of buried treasure and eagerly paw away at the remaining of what separates me from my gold mine solution, nothing appears underneath me, but a swarming darkness surrounds me.
I hear the whispers of misery constantly in my head, buzzing through my brain like a million hornets looking for the target to sting but never given any rest. The darkness swallows me whole and tells me the secrets of the blackness. The despair in its voice makes hair raise on the back of my neck and fists clench by my sides as I am forced to sit and listen to it. Each night the darkness consumes me and again I am thrown into the black void of angst, anger, hate, desperation, misery, and anxiety. The only thing allowing me to sleep is the pattern of his shallow breathing next to me, and once I count 200 breaths that pass in and out, my mind gives me a rest, and at last I can sleep. But to what wonderment? The nightmares have returned to me, and no longer can I control when I wake up. Feeling like I am gripped in paralyzing fear, I have to endure each grueling confrontation with my horrific nightmares, forcing me to understand that my creativity has turned itself into nightmares. When I escape the hellish dreams of me dragging myself along fields of barbed wire, I awake to an empty bed. He is gone to work, and so I must get ready for work. Relief would be what I would hopefully feel, but instead the biggest feeling of dread falls over me like a shadow on a small plant under the majesty of a mighty oak tree. But who can I tell?
I am trapped in this labyrinth that is my brain with no help to find my way out; the only voice pulling me deeper and deeper into the maze to make me lost forever in my own depression. Medicine; that is what they would say my solution is. But that doesn’t nothing but make me stand on the tops of the walls of my maze, still fighting to balance and find my way to the exit. I become a shell of my former self. The medicine fights the battle with depression, but at the same times subsides the feeling of happiness, and it makes me into a drifter. Someone with no feelings just falling through the wind. The crippling grayness has consumed me, and I let it. Now what?