I know. I know. Months have gone by and I've vanished off the face of the earth. Well, not really, I've been hiding under the covers of my real name, pretending I wasn't being petrified by the boogyman living under my bed. Depression is his name, and the glowing red eyes of his presence has me scared to come out.
Much of nothing has been happening. I've taken a break, needed or not, from all things that make Lea... well... Lea. I'm not writing, although I want to, I've ignored social media and pretty much walked away from everything.
I look at my laptop like it's a snake ready to strike. Knowing full well I have manuscripts on there that are so close to being completed. I stare at that damn piece of technology and it seems like a dream-self was the one doing so well, balancing life and writing.
Everyone wants to know when it started... how I've slipped so far. I think, well, it doesn't matter what I think. All that matters is that I want myself back. Right? That I keep saying the words everyone wants to hear. That I'm going to start writing again. That I'm going to start acting like myself again. The problem with those statements is that they make everyone around me feel better. That Lea is finally coming out of the pit, that she's going to poke her creative mind out of the darkness and be okay. Reality is those things need steps to happen before I can be me. That I'm not doing any of those things I want to do because I can't right now.
Even this blog entry is a bunch of smoke I'm blowing up my own ass. And I know it. I lie convincingly to myself just as well, or better, than to those around me. That's the way of it though. All the right intentions doing fix anything.
So. The question is what am I going to do about it? Am I going to stay buried under my covers, letting each day push me farther behind or am I going to lean over the bed and finally stare the creepy thing under my bed of complacency in the eye?