Writerly Wednesday: It doesn't get any worse than this

It's hard to believe more than 60 days have passed.

In some ways it feels like it's been years since the last time I wrote a true blog post. In other ways, it feels like I've merely blinked.

I'm not exaggerating when I say I've traveled the hardest road of my life during the past nine weeks.

If only I'd quit asking how life could get any worse.

I don't remember the first time that question popped into my head. It was probably about 13 years ago, when I dropped my daughter off at daycare and, as I headed to work, I seriously contemplated missing the turn and disappearing from my life.

It wasn't that I didn't love my daughter and husband. I just didn't love anything about me.

Fortunately, I realized that you can't run away from yourself.

Instead of missing the turn in to work that day, I turned to God and prayed. He led me out of that dark place, right into a job that helped me become a better writer. He led me to a place where I could chase my dream.

And things were good. For awhile. Until the realization of my husband's alcohol addiction and depression settled upon me.

As he went through withdrawal, I started asking myself: "How can it get any worse than this?"

As he struggled through med changes, I thought: "It can't get any worse than this."

And when he was prescribed one med a few years ago that nearly destroyed him, I let myself wonder: "Really? How could it possibly get any worse than this?"

Well, for starters, a new general practitioner's inexperience with bipolar and anxiety disorders could lead him through three med changes in four visits.

That GP could call me at work to tell me she's "worried about Dana."

I could snap at her and say, "I'm worried too. You need to quit screwing with his meds. Don't you realize what that does?"

She could lie to me about the course of treatment she wants to take, and then later have the nerve to write in her notes that I seemed "unconcerned" about my husband's well being.

The situation could actually get so bad I'd have trouble processing my anger several weeks later.

Still, within days I found myself asking: "How could life get any worse?"

Well, my gorgeous teenage daughter could date someone who doesn't respect her boundaries.

A 500-year flood could hit my hometown.

A raging river could rise to within 200 yards of my childhood home.

I could develop such a cynical attitude about writing that my eyes would roll back into my head when an agent would post something on Facebook or Twitter.

I could question whether or not I should let go of the dream I'd been chasing for years.

I could spiritually fall into a place so dark the very existence of God seemed laughable.

Sigh.

Yeah, it got that bad. But I now realize it could have been much, much worse.

I've read that writers aren't supposed to use their blogs as personal diaries.

It could be detrimental to your pursuit of publication.

Guess what? I've decided I don't give a damn.

I'm not bitter (except about the doctor thing). I just realized that I no longer enjoyed writing -- and living -- because I stopped writing and living from the heart.

I realized my heart was dying, and my body was becoming an empty shell.

Believe me. It won't get any worse than that. I won't let it.

It took a long time and I've traveled a long, hard road to bring you the most important (I believe) piece of writerly advice I can give.

That is: You'll go crazy writing what you think other people might want to read and living how you think other people might want you to live. Don't do it. Instead, write what you feel, and don't be afraid to let people see you are real.

Peace and happiness.