I need something in my life. Something that I enjoy. Something to drown myself in. Something I’m passionate about.
I feel like the poster-child (although not a child) for depression. “Have you lost interest in things you once loved?” Why yes, I have. It happened a long time ago. So long ago that I don’t even remember what those “things I once loved” were.
It’s not that I can’t get what I want… it’s that I don’t know what I want. I don’t know what would make me happy or what I would enjoy or what would feel good. And that has been an issue for me for a long time.
I’ve test-driven a few answers, but none of them stuck. I assume because I was just going through the motions. My heart wasn’t in it because none of those answers were the right answer for me. They were probably the right answer for someone else in my life (since I’ve spent most of my life trying to be someone else. Not even the same someone else. Just someone else. Anyone but me.)
The only thing that comes close to an answer is writing. But not just any writing. It’s writing fiction when I have lots of ideas and I’m inspired and the words are pouring out of me. It’s writing fiction when I’m so consumed by it that I hate to have to stop for any reason, and when I must stop, I can’t wait to get back to it. It’s writing fiction that makes me wake up in the middle of the night because I dreamt a scene and had to write it down immediately. (Obviously, I keep a journal and a pen by the bed.) It’s writing fiction where I’m so deep in it that I feel like I’m actually in it.
Of course, I can’t always write like that. And I can’t force it. It has to happen naturally. It’s like waiting for lightning to strike. Sometimes, I have a storm. Some rain. Some wind. But no lightning. I need the lightning.
But I need something else. I need another passion. Something I do not have to wait for. (That sentence bothers me because it ends with a preposition. It should be “Something for which I do not have to wait,” but that sounds awkward. Sorry. The grammar police live in my head.) Besides, I’ll likely never publish anything I write, so while I may feel a level of passion for it, my writing is pointless, isn’t it?
So… how do I figure it out? How do I find what I enjoy? How do I find what I’m passionate about? (Ugh… grammar police again.) How do I find what gives my life meaning?
Right now, I exist for the sole purpose of being a mother. It’s not that my kids aren’t worth it. It’s that they are all I have. I don’t have anything else. I am just Mom. Nothing more. No part of me is simply me. There is no Sandra. There is only mom. (And I’m not even good at being a mom, so it’s a total fail.)
But… this post is pointless. No one can tell me what my passion is. I have to find it somewhere inside me.
So far, no luck.
• • • • •
I am pretty passionate about these guys.
p.s. — Is loneliness my problem? Does it cloud over everything else? Does it kill passion? God knows it’s killing me.