Hobbiton

I’ve fallen into a bad habit. It’s one quite common among the disabled, negatively impacting mental and physical health. Being disabled and well equipped to live independently is a slippery slope. Combine that with a lack of focus and a diagnosis as someone with bipolar II disorder—I’m effectively medicated—and it’s a perfect recipe for sliding into an isolated depression.

I’m not afraid to admit to my internal struggles, struggles that at times keep me in bed for days at a time. Such was the case until just a few days ago. OK, so maybe I need to talk to someone about adjusting my meds, but that’s beside the point. I’ve been depressed since not long after my last post, which explains but doesn’t excuse my lack of productivity in recent weeks.

I share this with my audience to help others understand that I’m not always the source of inspiration my friends and family say I am. I try to…want to inspire others to reach inside themselves and rediscover the creative self, the playful child, that’s still inside each of us.

So yeah, a depression that kept me in bed all of last weekend, keeping me away from the keyboard and in front of Netflix binging Madam Secretary or YouTube TV for a Family Guy Friday. Hey, I’m not proud of it, but in the interest of self-love I make no apologies either. It is what it was, a form of retreat and self healing I didn’t know I needed.

I’m coming up on three years since the accident that took my former life and gave me a new lease on a life full of challenges I never dreamed I’d have to face. Once a marathon man, and now someone winded after walking a mile in 40 minutes.

Why? That’s a question, the answer to which I’d forgotten for reasons I’m still figuring out. I’d lost touch with my spirituality. I was directionless. The Universe, Divine Source…God smacked my head with a tree at 65mph to knock me out of an existential stupor.

I have a story to tell. It’s a cautionary tale about a boy with big dreams who burned through decades, clueless how to manifest those dreams. What I thought I wanted was never my first, dearest love and passion. What I did best from my earliest memories was fantasize, daydream that nothing was impossible, not even standing on the surface of the sun.

I lived in my head, in a world of what if, the clue that it took a lifetime to understand meant that I was, am, and always should have been a storyteller. A writer. Not a jet jockey or astronaut as I was inspired to believe. Admirable goals, to be sure, but not my purpose.

And yes, I believe we all have a purpose. I’m one of those people.

I live to daydream. I’m no comedian, but I understand that high that comes from making others laugh. Ideally with me and not at me.

Those who know me well know how much I loved to run. I’ve struggled to discover, or rediscover a sense of identity, one I thought I’d lost in the accident. And while the accident did strip from me some capabilities, I’m grateful my imagination wasn’t one of them.

I’m writing now with a feeling of renewal and rebirth, a phoenix from the ashes of my former self. I have been going through hell. I remembered a saying about going through hell, so I kept going. I clung to my faith that I was given a second chance for a reason.

And the fog began to lift, as it always does. My only job during that darkness was to remember why I’m still here and, above all, love myself. I’d never chastise a loved on for going through a rough time, so I wasn’t about to do that to myself.

I was here in my comfy hobbit hole, riding out the storm like REO Speedwaagon, knowing that it would pass as it always does. The beauty of going through times like that is that blissful juxtaposition once the sun breaks through and blue skies return.

I think my previous post was about being down as well. That isn’t my default state, honestly! I live for love and laughter, for the simple joy of a deep breath of fresh air, Canadian forest fire smoke notwithstanding. I know we’re social creatures, even as reclusive as I am. I’m working on changing that, striking a healthy balance between solitude and society.

I’ve always been wired to keep to keep to myself and enjoy the stories of others. I aspire to be one of those storytellers. I don’t expect others to believe as I do. We must each follow our own path. Though I believe death is an illusion, just as birth is, it’s not up to me to decide for others what to believe.

I know what I saw in that interval before the paramedics shocked my heart back to rhythm. It was wondrous to behold. I didn’t want to come back, yet here I am to tell you that you don’t have to believe in the fact of oxygen for it to sustain you.