It’s a funny thing, having your weblog under your own name. Knowing that what you write is going to be out there for anyone to read with your name right there.

Including future employers and possibly litigious current co-workers. (They might not be litigious now, but if I wrote down what I was thinking they’d probably be.)

Which is too bad, because as I may have mentioned before, y’all are missing some of my best snark. However, writing about morons at work isn’t great for continued employment, so I refrain.

It’s funny. When I started this, lo those many years ago, it was simply as a writing exercise. I figured that the only way my writing would get better was if I actually wrote. So the challenge was to write something–anything–every day of the week, excluding weekends and holidays. And I wrote whatever came to mind. After all, about the only person reading what I was writing was Erin, so it didn’t really matter what I said.

Then I discovered that other people were reading here. All of a sudden, everything was different, even if nothing had really changed.

All of a sudden, I found it harder and harder to write about the things that were most important, because suddenly there was the distinct possibility that anything and everything I said could come back to haunt me.

So for awhile now I’ve avoided writing about the things that were most important. The things that perhaps I really needed to be writing about, for my sanity’s sake if nothing else. I didn’t do it on purpose, it just kind of happened without my realizing it. Till I discovered that I was writing longer and more interesting comments on other’s weblogs than I was writing here. (Well, excluding my book reviews. But they’re over there, not over here. So they almost don’t count.)

Then a couple months ago it all got ugly. Michael’s office closed, and I freaked the hell out and then I couldn’t do anything. Couldn’t write, couldn’t think clearly, nothing.

I knew what was wrong, but I was damned if I was going to admit it.

I was slipping into a bout of depression.

Now, I’ve dealt with depression since I was about 16. And I know that I’ve been lucky. I can function when I’m depressed. I can work, I can go to school, and although I might not be doing my best work, I’m functioning. I may feel miserable, but I can get out of bed. I can earn my living. Of course I also have even more trouble that normal controlling my OCD. But at least I can have fun with that. (Because it’s always useful to organize all your books into alphabetical order. Or by country of origin. Or by publisher. Or by height. Or by how far they stick out from the bookshelf. Organizing is a useful skill dammit.)

But I couldn’t write about it. Because there’s a stigma about mental illness in this society, so it’s just not something that you want to blurt out to strangers–or even worse, future employers. It’s like a giant sign saying, “Don’t hire me!” Just what everyone needs.

Yet.

My depression and OCD are part of who I am. I’ve been dealing with them (sometimes better than others) for more than half my life. But they’re the secret dirty part. Quirky and odd people can deal with. Mental illness though? Let’s just say that you only have to hear the local mental health facility referred to as “the damned nuthouse” once to know where you stand with people. Better to be thought of as quirky and cranky, right?

So why am I writing about this now? Well, because I’m trying to start writing again. My story stopped dead when my depression kicked on, and I was too scared to do anything with it. Too scared to add anything, because as far as I was concerned my writing was shit. And too scared to edit it, because I was afraid I look at it and verify that it was shit. (In the meantime, it was like Schrodinger’s cat. Neither good, nor shit. As long as I didn’t open the box.) But then I wasn’t writing anything here, because, you know, people were watching, and that was even worse. Worse than worst hair day ever. (And trust me, I’ve had more than my fair share of bad hair days.) So I was stalled and couldn’t do anything about it.

But now? Now I’ve decided, fuck it. Write about depression and that’s pretty much getting the worst over with. This was supposed to be a place where I could teach myself to write, and if I’m afraid to write? Well, I’m screwed. So here it is. If I really want to write then I have to learn to write down what I’m thinking, and the hell with what everyone thinks.

So.

Sorry I’ve been so quiet for the past several months. Hopefully that’ll be changing.

Or maybe I’ll take post some more flower pr0n.