Slightly belated for an end-of-year review post, I know, but depression gets in the way when I look back at what’s primarily been a waste of a year (to be honest, the forty-fifth in a row). Depression doesn’t interfere as much with the proper writing, but with blog posts, where I’m writing as myself, I find it hard to maintain interest.

2018

Mostly this year was taken up by the submission grind. It’s been over a year of submitting to no success, so I’m moving on to the next submission book.

Writing-wise, I’ve done three novels, one novella, a number of short stories, and the fourth and final part of an epic fantasy. The only success from submissions is a short story being accepted into the Airship Shape and Bristol Fashion 2 anthology, out later this year.

Of the novels, two are books three and four of the Ghost Bullets series, and the other is a psychological thriller I used in place of actual therapy to help me understand my mental health issues. This is the one up for submission.

2019

Initial plans for 2019 are to work on the psychological thriller, Broken (or possibly The Myth of Normal) once it’s back from critique, and submit it (though I’m worried the critique will suggest cutting enough bits to make it too short to submit). I’m probably going to submit it to the full list of agents I’ve prepared at once, since submitting in stages has been bad for my mental health. The list isn’t that long anyway, since I write in a few genres.

I’ll then work on the other in progress novels rather than starting new stuff (hopefully). My epic fantasy is the only one of reasonable size for submission. It’s too long, but being in four parts is divisible into two novels of appropriate word counts.

I’ll need to consider abandoning the website in a couple of months, since it’s .EU, and with the Brexit nonsense continuing our national suicide, I’ll no longer be legally permitted to retain ownership of the domain. I’ll probably let it fade rather than move to an alternative, as I haven’t done much maintenance on it in a while. I’ll probably separate this blog, so ads will be appearing here soon.

I’m considering giving up on attending writing conferences, since I’m not sure they’re good for my mental health. I go to them wanting to have a conversation about writing, just to feel I’m part of some community, but I’m unable to engage in more than brief exchanges before panic sets in, and the experience leaves me in a bad place.

I’m also considering watching less news. I’m sure it exacerbates my depression, and I’m not really that into grimdark.

Mental Health

[Nothing else writing related to say, so stop now if you don’t want to read about mental health issues]

The last couple of years haven’t been good (for anyone but sociopaths), but they have let me realise my mental health problems, which I’d been unconsciously ignoring before.

My main problem is social anxiety. Fairly severe social anxiety, I think. It’s probably the reason I haven’t had a proper job in over a decade, and why I’m unable to maintain any form of connection with people. The more I consider my life, the more I realise how long I’ve been like this, and how much damage it’s caused me.

I also feel it’s too late to do anything about it. Because it’s become so much a part of who I am, and I can’t see any life I’d want to live to which I can try to change. So reaching out for help, even if I was capable of doing so, seems pointless.

This is probably the main contributor to my depression, and the two pretty much feed on each other from there. They often send me spiralling into a maelstrom of anxiety, which is only calmed by considering suicide (not in an immediate sense. Obligations prevent me living, or ending, my life as I’d like to). That it can all end is the only relief on offer.

I’m sure I haven’t always been this bad, though I wonder if lack of practice has eroded the mask of normality I’ve gotten used to wearing. I’m less able to engage in facile conversation, often saying something too honest since I’m out of practice at the lying required by everyday life.

I feel the urge to be honest with people. I want to be open with someone, anyone, but when people ask how you are, they rarely want honesty. They don’t want you to say the thought of suicide is the only thing that’s preventing you breaking down completely. Fine is the socially acceptable answer. (Is this post too honest? I dislike the social inclination to not discuss mental health topics, but I’m not sure I can tell whether this is going too far.)

Establishing any kind of a social connection feels like a young person’s activity anyway. At a certain age, social interactions atrophy into set patterns and groups, and I do feel old.

I’m not sure I’d understand how to establish any social connections now anyway. My anxieties convince me I’m unfamiliar with what would constitute appropriate social interaction, and that any attempt I make at such will be rude. Why would anyone want to talk to me anyway? (While I’m sure a lot of this is my tendency to overthink, my anxieties grasp any excuse to stop me acting.)

Any attempt at conversation becomes stressed as the opposing forces of a desperation to form a connection, and my social anxiety’s urgings to flee the potential social gaffes that inevitably lie in wait. These result in a panicked maelstrom of thoughts, and I often have no idea what I’m saying.

The really surprising thing is that, with all the stress this causes, and my near constant state of anxiety, I’ve yet to suffer a stroke or similar heart condition. Maybe I should eat more unhealthy stuff.

I have no conclusion to this ramble. I don’t see this state of mind changing much this year, certainly not in any good way. I’ll carry on not living life, and talking myself out of any thoughts of connecting with anyone.

So, y’know, Happy New Year.