I was listening the podcast The Mental Illness Happy Hour. On this episode, the guest was Jenny Lawson, an author whose works I’ve read and enjoyed. Jenny blogs as “The Bloggess,” and has written several best-selling books. She writes about her own experience with anxiety and depression, and the ludicrous situations she sometimes finds herself in. Her writing is transparent and real, the kind of thing people often call “brave.” I love reading it.

At first, I was thrilled when I noticed Jenny was on the podcast. But as I listened to the interview, my joy turned sour, and envy washed over me. I listened to Jenny talking about her career, and about her most recent book, and I became so envious, because she is doing what I want to do. I want to write a blog about my own struggles with mental illness. I want to publish books about it. I want to be a writer, and this is my subject matter.

Now, of course, I do those things. I have published a book. I am blogging right now.  But I want success at it, like Jenny has. I want my work to be noticed by more than just my family and friends. I want to receive hundreds of comments on every blog post. I want to receive royalty checks with more than two figures. I want to make it.

Over the past few years, there have been times when I thought I was about to make it. Times when I thought I was getting my big break. I was so excited when Darkwater was published — I really thought it would change everything. I fantasized about resigning from full-time church work to focus on writing. Five years later, I’m still working full-time for the church.

I tried to get my name out there, and every time, I thought I would get “discovered” by someone who would open a door for me into a new level… every time I was interviewed on a podcast to talk about the book…the time I went to a local mental health convention, and shared my business card with organizations…the time I had the opportunity to speak at a gathering of pastors…every time I sent free copies of Darkwater to organizations that focus on faith and mental illness…I always thought my break was just around the corner. But none of these things have panned out. I guess I’m not sure what I’ve been expecting – but whatever it is, it hasn’t happened.

And at this point, I’ve given up on that dream. I no longer think there’s anything more for me in this. I’m just a small-time writer, with a blog read by a few dozen people, with a hybrid-published book that I’ll never recoup the investment from. Years ago, when I was trying to get Darkwater published, and dealing with rejection after rejection, I stumbled upon a mantra: A writer writes. I decided that I was a writer, and no matter what happened with my career, my identity was writer. And so all I needed to do was keep writing. Keep blogging. Keep journaling. Keep working at it. Success had nothing to do with it.

But now that’s gotten so hard for me. Over the past year or two, I routinely go weeks or months without a single blog entry. And I go weeks or months without even writing in my journal. And there are so many unfinished writing projects on my whiteboard, collecting dust.

I’ve written several posts that were supposed to be the first in a series – but they keep stalling. That’s where I feel right now – stalled. I’m just that depressed pastor guy who can’t talk about anything else, and who can’t even talk about that right now. Maybe that’s why I felt so jealous of Jenny – it’s not just that she has a successful career and I don’t, but because she’s still writing, and I’m not.

Sometimes I even wonder about the depressed part. I ask, Do I really have depression, or am I just lazy? After all, I am always able to function. I am always able to go to work, always able to pay my bills. Not everybody with depression can do that every day. For some, getting out of bed, getting a shower, brushing their teeth, can be mountainous climbs. But me? I just can’t write.

But I think I do have depression, and I think that one of the places it goes for is my creativity. When I’m depressed, I start feeling like I’m just a shell with nothing on the inside. I can still accomplish things. I can still do what I need to do, but I can’t find the motivation or the energy to do the things that I know give me life, like writing.

And so now I’m wondering – is this why writing has been such a struggle for so long? Have I been in a depression? Are my meds and my mindfulness not working?

And was it triggered by my disappointment in how my career as a writer has gone? It feels like this lack of writing is connected to that disappointment. But which way does the causation go? Are my disappointments leading to an inability to write much? Or is it the other way? Is my current slump what’s causing the disappointments? After all, how can I pursue a writing career without, umm…writing?

Maybe it’s both. Maybe it’s an ouroboros, a vicious circle that just eats its own tail. Maybe I’m self-sabotaging and fulfilling my own prophecy. “I’m no writer,” my inner critic says. “I’m not good enough for that. So I won’t bother writing.” And then, there you go – I’m not writing, so therefore I’m not a writer. Impeccable logic. But so dumb.

And I guess the only way out of this is to write. The only way to get off my butt is to get off my butt. The only way to stand up is to stand up. And I’m learning that judging myself and scolding myself is not a very effective motivator. I’m learning that curiosity is much more effective. So I’m going to try to be curious. I’m curious if I’ll ever finish and publish this post. (It’s taken me a rather long time to write it.) I’m curious if it will lead to others. I’m curious if I’ll find a way out of this ouroboros.

I don’t need to be jealous. I can be curious instead. I’m curious if I’ll succeed at that.

Image by Daniel R from Pixabay