What I do has no meaning. I do not produce anything, I do not make the world a better place. No ones life will be saved because of what I do. I will not feed anyone, nor clothe them, nor make them laugh. I do not heal, I do not entertain, I do not build, I do not break. I produce nothing tangible, I help no one. I bring neither joy nor chaos to people’s lives.

It has taken me thirteen years to realise the futility of my career. To realise that THAT is the crux of my problem - or at least a very big part of it.

I stopped this last month because it seemed the best thing to do. An attempt to loose myself of the black dog by agreeing and signing up for anything and everything that I thought would distract me from its wolfish fangs resulted in draining me of all creativity and energy. And I finally just snapped and shut down. I gave up SJD and scriptfrenzy and ficktion and 365 and I stopped talking to friends, stopped replying to emails. Instead I focused all that (lack of) energy on work. On the job. The one that I loathe and despise.

I started getting pains in my stomach, like the onset of ulcers. I had a permanent headache. Monday mornings became a challenge, I found myself leaving the desk and sitting in a toilet stall for 20 minutes crying for no particular reason.

And its taken me until now to figure out that I did it the completely wrong way round. When I decided to cut things out of my life I chose the wrong things. The things that calmed me, that make me think, the things that I actually god damn well enjoyed doing- they were all gone. Excised because I thought it was the right thing to do. The lack of creativity, of spontaneity I had thought was down to the pressure of having to come up with something new on a daily basis was actually down to the pressure that I was feeling from work. It was the total lack of motivation that was a drain on me. With nothing to focus on, nothing to distract me, nothing to enjoy the job became my disease.

Last week I went sick and stayed in bed for three days. I haven’t been right for a few months, but you learn to hide it - the odd outburst every so often - but generally people don’t notice. For three days I ate nothing, I spoke as little as possible and I hid away in the back of my mind. It had been coming for a long time. By the end of the third day I disgusted myself, lying in my own pit of despair I felt pathetic. I got up, remade the bed with fresh sheets, had a shower and sat on the edge of the bed. And it slowly came to me - this thing that was in the back of my mind but that I hadn’t been able to acknowledge till then - that nothing is worth that much grief. Nothing is worth feeling this way. Its not the first time I’ve found myself here - you grow to recognise the symptoms and pray to god that you can drag yourself up before you crash all the way (so very far) down.

So I’m back now. I’m slowly getting back into doing the stuff I enjoy - and I’ve stopped pressuring myself . If I don’t feel like doing a self-portrait for 365 it doesn’t mean that I’m a failure. If I miss out on a weekly ficktion effort it doesn’t make me less of a writer - although perhaps more of a procrastinator. I’m not perfect - none of us is - and I know I have a good few wobbly days ahead of me. But work is now very low on my list of priorities. That’s not say I’m going become a complete slacker, I’m still going to do my job, but I’m not going to do that bit extra. It’s not appreciated, nor even noticed most of the time. I’m still living on a one-day-at-a-time basis, but I’m hoping that soon -not tomorrow or next week, but soon enough- the good days will once again outweigh the bad.

So that’s it, that’s all I wanted to say.