Every day is a struggle when you have a mental disorder. This week, there were at least two days I was late to class because I woke up so depressed I wasn’t sure I’d be able to leave my bed. I can’t count the number of panic attacks I’ve had in the short twenty-six days of 2018.
I get by.
It’s a lot better than it once was, nothing like the summer of endless wondering. I see the point now, I see a future, I see hope in myself—but that doesn’t fix the chemical imbalance that makes me feel like I’m always in a whirlpool, constantly spiraling.
This has affected my academics in more than one way, especially hindering my writing. I know I have the potential to be a great writer, but I also know I need discipline and constant improvement. One of my 2018 resolutions was to write daily, and I couldn’t even keep it for a week. The anxiety leaves me drained; the depression kicks out motivation.
The writer in me wants to be perfect. I think that’s what we all want—to get our words out onto the page perfectly polished and published tomorrow—but the reality of that is nonexistent. We must work to get anywhere. We must work to be successful.
What is “success” as a writer? Is it the New York Times Bestsellers List? Is it poetry blowing up on Instagram and a book falling into your lap? Is it recommended by John Green?
Maybe it’s different for everyone. I think we all hope to be perfect—but that’s not the point of writing. Writing is messy, and awkward, and uncomfortable. It’s not a quickly written masterpiece, but rather a process in which we are constantly growing.
These days, I try to just start. The point of writing is not to be perfect, but to realize you’re good enough.
