Friday, 8 June 2018

Writing Prompt: You're filling a time capsule to bury in the backyard that will be dug up in five hundred years. Write the letter you'd put inside to describe life as you know it today.

To whom it may concern,

You hopefully exist in a world far different than the one I regret being part of today.

Things have never been better. You can eat almost anything, do almost anything, and in most regions you are safe from the previous ever-present threat of murder, thievery, war, or a combination of the three. There is no point in human history that was safer and more prosperous.

Things have never been worse. With this industrialized prosperity comes the stark reality that we are no longer concerned with mere matters of daily survival. The grind that we have transitioned to is of artificial construction and not necessity.

As a society, we have progressed to the point where struggle is largely a design of human hands. We are equipped to take care of humanity but elect not to, feigning impossibility or cost for the reason why we do not meet this mark.

Without the life-or-death struggle, we are granted the opportunity to assess and ponder. Philosophy became an innate consideration within our human condition. The question of purpose and direction is one that is continuously being asked of us, yet we remain trapped in the confines of old ways of thinking.

We continue to operate as though we are peasantry living under the threat of famine and conscription instead of as technologically advanced individuals who can largely determine what comes next. Frozen by tradition and indifference, our society allows itself to be steered by predatory personalities who are intent on self-satisfaction and not at all concerned with the welfare of our people. We are an aimless society rife with corruption, neglect, and woefully unnecessary pain.

Our prosperity has put us at risk, and I hope you are reading this with even greater prosperity surrounding you without the same existentialist quandary looming over your shoulder. 

There are many in this society who claim to have the solution. Tribes are erected around us all claiming to solve the problems we face. These groups are largely ineffectual, instead perpetuating the issue and further dividing those who should be kin. You are left with few options. Feeling alienated amongst your own kind is a likely fate.

I write from a hand that no longer sees the value in effort. I’ve failed my morality and continue to fail myself as an individual each and every day that passes. Dreams of a better world are haunting instead of inspirational. I have lost the fight.

It is a sign of self-absorbed hypocrisy to speak with such authority about the world yet remain unwilling to do one’s part in changing it. This is who writes to you from the past. You would do well to consider my words with appropriate skepticism and doubt.

You may not have worked to receive this letter but you deserve better than what you’ve been given.

If you yet possess your soul, you will do your best to keep it. 

The world, no matter how great, can be greater. 

My words, as fatalistic and without purpose they may be, serve as warning. There is more to life than being beaten. 

Perhaps you live in a world where this remains true and you are surrounded by individuals who can help you make it better. 

I hope it for you.

Saturday, 12 May 2018

I'd Rather Not Be Me


I’ve always possessed something of a passive discomfort with the idea of the ‘self’. I am me, but do I like ‘me’?

Moments where I am okay with myself and what I’ve done are rare. They don’t happen anymore. A life of repression made it so that I never thought about myself up until the age of 12, and after that point I had a short three year period where I pretended to be someone I was not.

What goes unmentioned in that is that regardless of pretending, what you show people is ultimately who you are. You are not remembered by your hidden intentions and desires. You are remembered by what you do to others.

My past brings me shame. I’m not proud of who I was. I struggle to justify my childhood and teenage mistakes because, as understandable as it may be to make mistakes, I find myself in a position of where I knew better but specifically ignored that little detail.

Knowing better and making the mistake anyways negates any superiority you may feel you have, the same as being intelligent but electing to do nothing with it. It may be true that you knew better but you failed to meet the mark. You still made the mistake.

I can describe most of my life this way. I knew better but chose to be less. Being less did not endear me to other people and it did not endear me to myself. Every year has been some effort towards not wanting to be worth it and not wanting to be liked.

Many bridges have been burned. I’m socially isolated to an unhealthy degree and have accomplished little. Physical issues aside, my mind is diseased as well. Several of my barriers are of self-design either through conscious decision or subconscious neglect. Leaving something to fester should not surprise you when it starts causing other problems. The snowball effect applies to more than just good things. It can happen just as well with the negative.

Coming up with explanations on why I’m like this can be futile. Most of the time I merely dismiss anything I come up with as a lame attempt at justifying my mistakes, and I’m keenly opposed to doing something like that because I feel it is important to own up to your failures. I spend most of my time owning up to failures now.

But if I decide to follow the thread to its end, the answer I come to most is that I simply don’t want to be me.

I don’t want to be who I am. I don’t want my past, my burden, my virtues, anything. Every week I wish desperately for the impossible to happen and that my life is wiped from existence. I possess no interest towards making the best of the hand I have been dealt. I possess no interest towards dealing with the present and working towards the future.

I don’t like who I was. I don’t like who I am. I don’t like who I’m going to be.

If I could, I would erase myself. The world is less with me in it. I regret that I could trick people into liking me, yet I’m far too selfish to save them from the mistake.

I just don’t want to be me.

Sunday, 6 May 2018

The Point (and Nihilism)


As days go by, the question of what the point of everything is grows more vocal in my mind.

There is little that can be said in response to this question. It is, at its core, a subjective judgment. Any implication of objective meaning is one born of assumption. Assumptions are, inherently, subjective.

Asking that question, then, leads one to assume the obvious: you’re a nihilist. Since you do not believe that there is an objective ‘point’, you believe the same as a nihilist does.

What goes unsaid in this determination is that your judgment of the ‘point’ is ultimately self-centred. You’re incapable of making a judgment on the fabric of reality, too intertwined with your own suffering and perspective that this is the extent of your overview.

People don’t like hearing such a description of themselves. Yet, it is true.

I am incapable of making a nuanced judgment.

So I don’t bother trying to. There is no point.

In a clever turn, that is the point of this diatribe. While I may be described as a nihilist, and may indeed even make jokes about nihilism when I laugh at existential memes on the internet, I’m not so sure that it’s an accurate label.

I have no opinion on the purpose of life because I am too concerned with the purpose of my own perspective. One might be able to argue that there is no difference between the two. I reject this argument primarily because one’s purpose is not necessarily the purpose. I would personally make the argument that one’s purpose is innately separate from the purpose. Regardless of what you may think the underlying point of existence is, you will inevitably deviate from that due to your individualism.

In my opinion, that is a good thing. There should be no set path of universal merit. It cheapens individuality and our actions to imply that it is essentially meaningless in the face of what might be deemed objectively true.

There is little meaning in an objective truth in the face of a subjective reality. This becomes especially true when you are considering now billions of subjective realities all clashing with each other on a daily basis on just this small rock in the void. We are a minuscule part of reality, each with our own perspective on it, and we will all journey to any objective truth that may exist on our own terms.

The past years have been increasingly difficult for me. I am adamant that this difficulty is of self-design. In any attempt to discuss this with another, I outright object to any implication that a misfortune is thrust upon me without my consent. Someone observing without context may describe this as healthy. After all, it is important to not get trapped in a cycle of self-pity. It can be considered empowering to take ownership of your fate and to steer it into better waters.

It exists as a form of self-sabotage. I am cognizant of this, yet also comfortable with it.

Much of my behaviour can be described this way now: self-sabotage. I deem there being little point in trying to change the situation after trying for so long and failing for the same length of time. I hit the “dead end” of my path to salvaging a life over a year ago.

I hit my dead end.

Now I’m here.

Thursday, 20 July 2017

NDP-Green Coalition Raises Welfare & Disability Rates

I'm usually fairly snarky when it comes to politics. It's how I deal with the dread. And I was going to be snarky about this, but I believe this deserves a more direct reaction.

A few months ago, BC held its local elections. A big aspect of it was getting rid of the Liberal party and, more specifically, Christy Clark. It reminded me greatly of the "Heave Steve" sentiment during the federal election that ultimately convinced me not to vote. I did vote in this local election, however, and I voted for the Green Party as their platform best represented my interests and I felt they also had a better image for the future of BC in sustainability.

While my district did not go Green, it did see an increase of nearly 20%. Several other districts -did- go Green. Together with the NDP, they combined for enough seats to deny the Liberals a majority. 

What's more is that they denied the Liberals government entirely. An NDP-Green coalition was officially sworn in this week to lead BC with the two parties promising to collaborate on legislature that would undo a lot of the harmful policies set forth by the Liberals or to fix the complete inaction the Liberals have been responsible for. 

The first thing Premier Horgan did was increase funding for the wildfire crisis. Good. An easy win. 

What this coalition did next, however, makes me feel even better about the results of the election. From my perspective, an NDP-Green coalition was the "best case scenario" in the realm of realism. An actual Green win would have been a fairy tale and not worth hoping for. I got my wish for the coalition but did not know whether or not that hope would be validated. 

That hope, thus far, has been validated. The Liberals of yore prided themselves on freezing social welfare benefits across the board for over a decade despite inflation, despite cost of living increases, and despite Vancouver's newfound reputation as the 3rd most expensive city to live in on this planet. That is, to say the least, not great

Today, the NDP announced immediate raises to both welfare and disability rates that will go into effect in September. It's not a large increase, only $100, but it's a first step in a process that will hopefully not be as soul-crushing for those reliant on the state for survival. They also plan on raising the earning exemption from $200 to $400 and to tie the disability rate to inflation. There are talks in place to raise these rates further in the future as current reports suggest that a monthly stipend of $1500/mo would be necessary for people to not be crushingly oppressed by poverty in the Greater Vancouver Area. 

And to assuage worries that the NDP would not play ball with the Greens, they will also look into funding a study for basic universal income and seeing if that may be a viable option for British Columbia in the future. 

I am excited to see what this coalition does next. 

Thursday, 6 April 2017

Initial Thoughts on the Complex Chronic Disease Program


Image Credit: Background by Darko Stojanovic on Pixabay.

The Build Up


When I moved to Vancouver, one of the underlying hopes was that I would finally be granted the opportunity of seeking a legitimate answer and treatment plan for my health. The time before I moved was spent with a big question mark about what was plaguing me. I was healthy one day and then I wasn't.

The plan was reasonable. Get on a plane, travel across the continent, find a place to live, find a job, and get settled in a new life. From there I would poke at my options for diagnosing and eventual treatment. It had been a plan years in the making and it seemed as though it would pan out in spite of everything.

I needed help for that. I wouldn't have done it without the help of two friends that I will forever be indebted to. Once I was set loose in Vancouver it was time for me to rise to the occasion instead of those supporting me. I got a place to live. I got a job. I had interviews lined up on all my days off. I was getting to know the people around me.

It was difficult, of course. Most days were spent teetering the balance of just keeling over or persevering. I was making it, though. One day at a time. This changed when I received a lovely bout of laryngitis.

Like that, the progress I had spent years building towards evaporated. I could barely go around the block, let alone go to work. I coasted on "savings" for a month before realizing that I was not getting better. The laryngitis had passed but the loss of functionality did not. I never regained the work I had put so much effort into.

This put me into an awkward position. At this point in time, I no longer had a support structure and nobody to turn to. I lost my job. I couldn't make it to any interviews. It seemed as though I was going to finally lose for the last time. In a last ditch effort, I made the trip to a welfare office and made my case for why I deserved social assistance as a newcomer to the province.

I was granted welfare in large part due to the circumstances of why I moved across the country. My health insurance was expedited and I gained access to the healthcare system of British Columbia. Within the first week of having this new power I made my way to an ER, unaware that such a thing as "walk-in clinics" even existed in Canada.

There, I was given a chest x-ray and told I had asthma. I do not have asthma. The resident that took care of my case gave me a prescription for an inhaler that I fulfilled mainly because I wanted to see if it would do anything, even as a placebo. It did not.

The Next Step


This led to a string of visits to walk-in clinics. I visited four different clinics in search of a referral or an answer. While I was passively seeking an answer to the past several years of my health, I was primarily seeking a quick fix for the effects from the laryngitis. For several months, I put my hands on my ears and shouted "la la la" at the idea of trying to tackle the bigger problem.

As you might expect, this did not lead me anywhere great. I learned that walk-in doctors were not good at what they do. I was told everything from being labelled a drug seeker to a blatant liar. Doctors that said they'd follow up did not. Doctors that said they believed me did not. The welfare office was beginning to stress the importance of finding a permanent doctor and provided a sheet of doctors to contact that were accepting new patients.

None of them were accepting new patients.

I had moved in June of 2014 and it was now September. I was surviving off of the measly welfare cheque and my writing work, a network that was still intact at that time. A friend in a nearby city got me hooked up with a magazine and I put finding an answer on hold when I received an opportunity to be a media reporter at the International Film Festival. I had dreamed of getting media credentials at an event within the first three years of moving and had achieved it within six months.

I thought, naively, that maybe I could take advantage of a mental high and somehow will myself into being better. Every fiber of my being was thrown into this, requiring in-person trips to another city and to the film festival in a hectic week. In that week I passed out on the SkyTrain, I skipped out on multiple movies, and I didn't stick around to build up rapport with the magazine staff.

It was a miserable, miserable week. It did more damage than it did good, and it took me weeks to get "better".

The Precipice


Now it was December and there was still no good news. I decided it was time to try another walk-in clinic, again. It was time to try another doctor, again.

I turned to Google and searched for walk-in clinics, crossing off the ones I had already gone to and had poor experiences with. Then I found a clinic that was generically named "The Doctors' Office". I thought it was a gag.

It wasn't. Whereas I would ordinarily just hop onto a bus and check it out, I noticed this clinic was an actual, well, doctor's office. I rung them up and asked the golden question: "Are you accepting any new patients?"

They were. I was quickly registered and before I knew it, I was a week away from meeting with a doctor that had just started accepting new patients. I was skeptical. Of course I was. But I went, and I met with this doctor, and the effort paid off.

In this meeting, I had taken a chance. I told her that I wanted help for years of health woes but that I wanted more immediate help with the effects of the laryngitis. She was on-board. A blood test was requisitioned, another chest x-ray was requested, and I even got to do a heart stress test (which was awful, by the way).

When the calendar turned to 2015 I met with this new doctor again. There wasn't anything evident that would explain what was going on. I wasn't ready to tell her my thoughts and she recommended an internist. I accepted, and I went in February.

A New Chapter


This is where the Complex Chronic Disease Program becomes relevant. In this appointment with the internist, I was offered something rare: Two hours of time to talk instead of ten minutes. I wrote up my story. I told the internist everything. I was putting everything on the line.

The result of that meeting was bad, but hopeful. I was told in no uncertain terms that modern medicine likely would not help me. That this was going to get worse instead of better. And that I needed to prepare for the worst because even a definitive answer likely wouldn't lead anywhere good.

That's not great to be told, but it was great to be believed. The internist wrote his report, attached my story, and sent everything back to my new doctor. When she read it, she wanted to talk. She didn't dismiss me, she didn't fire me as a patient. Instead, she told me she would do her best to find an answer.

The first thing she did was refer me to the Complex Chronic Disease Program with the behest of the internist. I was aware of the program but skeptical of its value; in the short time it had existed, it had lost its director and was having funding problems. My doctor told me it would take months before I would even find out if I were accepted into the program.

A few months later in April, I received a letter in the mail. I was accepted... but it would take a year before I would be seen. In the meantime, my doctor decided to send me to every specialist under the sun. A psychiatrist, a sleep specialist, a rheumatologist, another internist, a neurologist. Nobody could give me an answer to what was wrong. Nobody could tell me what would help.

Nobody was willing to experiment with treatments due to the liability risk. No medication, no injections, no therapy, nothing. With no answer, there was no access. I was always given a clean bill of health mentally and there was nothing apparent physically... just that it was obvious something was wrong. I couldn't handle stress tests. My muscle weakness was excessive. My cognition was easily reduced.

I chased every lead wherever they went. I had no choice. I needed an answer, if not for my sake but for the sake of continuing to be able to be supported by the welfare system. I was not on disability, and needed to prove my inability to work every few months. My case manager didn't believe my exemption forms, constantly questioning my legitimacy and whether or not I was telling the truth. "Unknown pain disorder" wasn't an applicable answer in the eyes of the government.

The rheumatologist told me to put fibromyalgia on my forms. So I did. I still need to refill the forms every now and then but it's less rabid now.

The neurologist told me it was a mitochondrial disease and referred me to the metabolic clinic. They denied me because I'm not a child and don't have a family history. Canada is ill-equipped to deal with mitochondrial research and treatment. Liability law prevents unrelated medical professionals from treating a mitochondrial disease.

What Next?


I was in a pickle. It was a year later, 2016, and I still hadn't seen the medical program. They had contacted me and told me it would be two years... or maybe never. I was operating under an incorrect diagnosis of fibromyalgia and could not gain access to the research and treatment necessary for the mitochondrial disease. I was trapped.

In December of 2016, I received a phone call. The medical program was ready to see me. I accepted, knowing that this was what everything hinged on. I would never be able to apply for disability would a questionable diagnosis and the patchwork of specialists I had gone to over the past two years. They told me what to expect: a phone interview with a nurse, an in-person meeting with a nurse, occupational therapist, and social worker, and then an in-person meeting with the program's internist.

Reasonable. They needed me to read and watch some material about the program prior to the phone interview, which I did dutifully. The phone interview two weeks later was... something else. I felt devastated after the conversation. The nurse did not care about my story. She was not interested. Leading questions were asked. I was asked if I had any questions of my own. The answers I received told me in no uncertain terms that what I needed from the program was not what I was going to get.

I was told they wouldn't advocate for me with other specialists or programs, they wouldn't help me with disability, and I would have to do things their way or no way. All this was covered in 15 minutes of what was supposed to be a 45 minute phone call.

The In-Person Meeting


My in-person meeting with the trio of program staff was scheduled for two months later in February of 2017, and I was told I would need to fill out a booklet of questionnaires beforehand.

Reasonable. I did that. I took it with me to the meeting. They never asked for it. I filled it out for no reason. However, the actual appointment went well. The nurse, occupational therapist, and social worker were all kind. They didn't ask leading questions. They paid attention to what I had to say. I have no complaints about this portion of my initial participation within the program.

An appointment was scheduled for the doctor a couple weeks later and I waited for that. I met with the internist and found the meeting somewhat disappointing. It was confirmed that they wouldn't advocate for me with the metabolic clinic. I was told it would be a dead end to pursue treatment for a mitochondrial disease in Canada, especially with only government insurance to rely off of for the payment of treatments or research.

So she "redirected" me into just sticking with the fibromyalgia diagnosis and adding chronic fatigue syndrome and central sensitization disorder to the list. Instead of what was the likely culprit, I now had a laundry list of "fuck if we know" diseases to my name that couldn't be cured and the treatment would only maybe indirectly help me.

The internist provided me a lot of material, none of which was applicable to me. The material that could be relevant was material I had already explored within the first year of my health's downward spiral. I was signed up for most of the program's treatments, although the options were restricted.

I'm going to see a physical therapist, once, who will show me exercises. I won't work in an actual PT clinic.

I'm going to see a dietitian, once, who will tell me what to eat. It is likely I won't have access to what they recommend.

I was signed up for all their therapy groups that have several months of waiting lists to contend with, and are all group therapy sessions. I don't gain anything from groups. I don't relate to people with fibromyalgia. I've tried support groups before to no avail.

In Conclusion


Since then, I have seen no one from the program and have not been contacted by anyone from the program. I was referred for "trigger point therapy" and have not heard from that either. They expect me to begin the disability process soon with these new diagnoses and they'll back me up. That's generous of them.

I want to be grateful for that. People with "unknown" diseases have a success rate of less than 20% when applying for disability and are often embroiled in the appeals process for up to a decade. Success rate with the backing of the program is over 80% on the first try. That's good. I need disability; it will help me tremendously. 

But I feel trapped. If I take this plunge, I am putting the nail in my coffin. I'll never be able to receive actual help for what is wrong with me. I'll never receive real treatment. I'll perpetually need to deal with doctors telling me to think good thoughts and I'll feel better. I'll perpetually be prescribed anti-depressants for the purpose of numbing me to the pain that instead only imbalance my mental state which is already fragile. 

It's an empty victory. 

I thought the Complex Chronic Disease Program would save me or give me a future. 

I don't know if it will do that. It may be that I've finally reached the dead end I keep speaking of. 

It may be that my worst case scenario of waiting until I get so bad I can't go on anymore will come to pass.

I'm not ready for that. I can't keep wasting away. 

But I have no choice. 

Sunday, 5 March 2017

Chronic Health and Dependency on Others


Image Credit: Background by Andy Bay on Pixabay.

Those with severe chronic health issues know the score: you will never be on equal footing with someone who is physically capable. It's why you're classified as disabled, after all.

This leads into a situation where you are vividly aware of your dependency on others. In order for you to survive, you require the generosity and thoughtfulness of those who are more capable than you are. Period. There is no wiggle room in this. Even if you can still walk and still have use of your limbs, you require their aid. People like us were left to die in the nomadic tribes and we wasted away in the streets during the dawn of civilization.

That's not a judgement on people from the past, just a sad fact that for the majority of human history we were not equipped to help let alone support those who are disabled. Those with amputations were still at a disadvantage but could mostly interact freely as their disability was a loss of limb and not a loss of internal functionality. People with cancer, Crohn's, genetic diseases, and a myriad of other unknown illnesses in the past were helpless regardless of hosting their original four limbs in reasonable capacity.

We don't live in that world anymore. We now live in a world where most countries can support the disabled to a certain extent and offer them some care or relief. Many are still left in the dust, many are still not included in the limited assistance that's available, but things are much better than they were. Hopefully, things will continue to get better.

"What constitutes as a condition?"


There is a component in this equation that is not regularly spoken of. What is the mental health impact of being dependent as a result of your incapability? Furthermore, can any impact from this situation be classified as a mental illness even though there is a clear and verifiable cause for it?

If you follow that train of thought, your question then becomes: "What is a mental illness?" The descriptions aren't very clear. Mental illnesses are conditions that afflict the mind. Of course we know that, but what constitutes as a condition? If you know the cause and you know why you are in this position, are you afflicted with an illness?

You could compare it to physical illnesses, which would say "yes" to that question. If you know you got cancer due to severe exposure to a carcinogenic, you are indeed afflicted with an illness. You know the whys and hows but you're obviously still sick. Does this same theory apply to your mental health?

It is unclear. If your depression is entirely context-based, is it fair to be diagnosed with depression when solving it only requires fixing the context? This could potentially imply that depression is a mere case of some lifestyle alterations and you then become peachy keen (a belief many do hold). That puts individuals with chemical imbalances in their head or some other cause for their depression at a severe disadvantage as the dialogue has now changed to imply that they simply haven't tried hard enough to be better. They're depressed by choice. 

But you can flip this around, just the same. Those who are depressed because of definitive aspects in their life may not be taken seriously because their "issues" are so concrete. You know what's wrong so that's not really a problem, you don't actually need help. Just change a few things around and you'll be made great again. 

You can spend countless days debating with others and with yourself about what constitutes as a mental illness, if how you change as a result of dependency can be classified as one, and if it even matters in the long run. None of this alters that you do change as a result of dependency. Your health makes you dependent, and both of these facts change who you are. They feed into each other and can potentially do so in a closed, self-repeating loop. 

"Both of these facts change who you are... and can potentially do so in a closed, self-repeating loop."


I can say without a shadow of a doubt that my health, and subsequently becoming solely reliant on others for my continued survival, has made me a worse person. Did I choose to be that? 

I ask myself that question regularly. Am I just making the choice, every day, to be what I am? Is it truly as simple as deciding suddenly to be better, to not be how I've been for the past year or more? And if it is truly that simple, why haven't I done that? 

Am I happy with being awful? Do I enjoy hurting others? 

Do I enjoy hurting myself? 

Friday, 13 January 2017

Troubles Maintaining Interest in Writing


Image Credit: Background is taken by Virvoreanu-Laurentiu from Pixabay.


I don't like using labels to describe myself. It feels like lumping myself into a set identity that I must then share with others, and that's not something I am typically okay with. Not only because it makes me uncomfortable on a fundamental level but also because, in my experience, I don't share much in common with people who identify with a certain label. 

Yet, I know that I am a writer. I know this because I've been writing for as long as I've had the ability to consciously think, secretly away from my parents and in school whenever the opportunity was afforded to me. Since the age of 11, I've been consistently involved in text-based roleplaying. I've written short stories, novellas, and recently completed my first novel (which I then trashed, as I do with all my other writing). I'm also very keen on writing letters to people and have been known to dedicate a few thousand words from time to time to each correspondence. 

I couldn't begin to estimate how many words I've written in my lifetime. A million, at least. I reckon it is likely more in the neighbourhood of five million. 

That's a big number. 

Even with that big number, however, I find myself also consistently facing the same problem. I have immense difficulty in maintaining my interest in the hobby. My attention is fleeting in that I can go from adoring the activity and dedicating hours a day to it to feeling as though the very act of writing another word would kill me or at least bring me great misfortune. 

It is very confusing as I always return and start writing again. I've tried those "write every day" cliches, I've tried limiting how much I write, I've tried setting a certain time aside for writing. It simply does not matter. My interest and my ability to write a coherent thought wanes regardless of the tricks I try. 

"My talent in writing is the one thing that might save me from a life of destitution."


This is problematic as writing is a core component of what I do and who I am. Due to disability, my talent in writing is the one thing that might save me from a life of destitution. My hobby, roleplaying, is entirely reliant on writing regularly. My goal to become a legitimate author hinges on being able to remain interested in an idea. 

The journey towards conquering the issue has been long and arduous. Do I have it all figured out yet?

I don't. I'm not sure if I will, at least not in the immediate future. I fight a battle inside my mind every day to stick with it, to keep writing in some capacity, and I've mostly been winning that fight. From a certain point of view. See, I write each and every single day... but for different things. My problem with interest remains, I'm just covering it up by inundating myself with different things to invest into. You can't fall into a not-writing-anymore hole if you keep yourself surrounded by things that can interest you.

And yet this does not solve the problem. It only masks it. This is something I am notorious for, at least to me, because I typically see some problems as unsolvable and instead try to hide them as best as I can. This applies to every aspect of my life, be it mentally, health-wise, or in my hobbies. If something doesn't look like it'll get better, I go into "cover it up" mode. 

I don't like covering it up. I want to be able to maintain my interest in what I do because my interest will make or break my ability to be consistent and to succeed. Someone who cannot stick with an idea is not someone who will do well, as directly evidenced by my lack of true success. 

"I don't like covering it up."


The question of how to next approach the idea of solving this problem is one left unanswered. I'm not sure what to try next. Is there something else? Undoubtedly, but right now it is inaccessible and unknown to me. 

It may be a matter of just waiting long enough for things to set themselves right. I find this a naive possibility, and not one with much merit. This has plagued me since before I became ill. It's been exacerbated by my health, without a shadow of a doubt, but the problem itself has been a part of me for well over a decade now. 

I hope I can beat it sooner rather than later. Knocking this obstacle down would bring me one step closer to dragging myself out of this rut.