The Light at the End of the Sewer Pipe?

So I've acknowledged that I haven’t done a damn thing in the last year on the writing front, and I've also admitted it was due to a complete lack of effort on my part. I mean, even the easiest turds require a little push, right? Sure, I've got the whole full time job plus parenting thing digesting most of my days, but we all know if you truly enjoy doing something you’ll find time. And honestly in the last year or more I haven’t enjoyed doing anything.

Except this.

 A year and a half ago I was prescribed the mind (and butt) numbing benzo Klonopin in addition to an antidepressant to try to keep this anxious, bipolar bitch in line. It was about that time that my depressive states starting hitting record lows and my give-a-fuck was flushed away, possibly forever. Coincidence? Meh.

About a month ago, my mind's overabundance of apathy finally gave way to debilitating depression during an epic emotional meltdown that was equal parts embarrassing, pathetic, and downright disgraceful. I won’t go into the gory details but I assure you, it was ugly.

Okay, not THAT ugly.

I was ready to pull the drain plug. I’m not a fan of the S-word around here (I’m not talking about “shit” you ass hair), but I was one Harlem Shake away from cutting my losses and calling it a life. But a strange series of coincidences caused me to call for help instead.

As anyone who has ever has a frowny face around a psychiatric professional can attest to, the first step to recovery (or at least a new set of symptoms) is always NEW DRUGS.

They ripped that Klonopin away from me faster than Taylor Swift’s vagina can queef out a breakup song and in no time I went from morose and lethargic to climbing walls to escape the river of acid flowing through the floor while a Nickelback cover band played relentlessly inside my skull. It was brutal, to say the least. I was given Ativan to try to stave off the benzo withdrawals, but if it helped at all then I’m sure I would not have survived this shit without it.

Now that I’m a few weeks past my psychiatric plunging, my ball cock has started to float and I’ve even had the inspiration to start writing again. (I apologize in advance.) While I’ve still got some lingering side effects of the Klonopin withdrawal and a tankful of emotional issues to work through, I’m excited to report that the silly little notebook I've carried with me forever is getting scribbled in once again.

So, will the next year be more productive than the last? Depends what’s on TV. After all, this isn’t the fucking Hallmark Channel. 

Here's your happy ending, dicks.