It pains me that I broke the streak. I haven’t thought much about it, but nearing 100 consecutive days of writing is a stark reminder that I was nearing 3,000 consecutive days of writing before my better demons took hold. I quit because I was depressed. I tripped over a failing relationship into this cavern of darkness that felt somehow more comforting than the pain of the loss I faced.
See, I’ve always had a deep and active imagination. I have created worlds and stories in my mind since I was capable of thought. Back then there was no way to share such things without writing them down. Unfortunately, I lived in a household where nobody cared about my stories or even recognized my voice. I wrote purely for me for a very long time. It wasn’t until 4th grade that anyone else recognized that I told stories and showed the least bit of interest in hearing them. That is when I started to write in earnest. I finally felt like there was an interested audience–someone who cared what I was thinking and sharing.
I wrote more and more over the years, striking the balance between writing for me and writing in order to share with others. After a time the outside interests peaked. People wanted to hear one type of story and I grew bored of telling it. I created a home life that mirrored how I grew up. Nobody was interested in what I had to say. So, I told the one type of story over and again until it killed my desire completely.
Then I found a special relationship. Then it broke. Then I stopped writing entirely.
My special relationship survived–changed but survived. Recognizing the depths of what I had–what I refused to let go of–helped me to understand that I needed to accept her into my life as who she was and wanted to be to me. If that meant coping with the demons of her choices, then so be it.
That was 78 days ago. Not long by anyone else’s standards, I suppose. But it feels like another life to me.