My dark passenger has been lurking around again the last couple of days. It is the nickname I’ve given to the unwelcome dark cloud of depression-inducing negative energy that likes to stop by for a visit every now and then, much like my unwelcome monthly visitor. Of course I shamefully stole the term from Dexter, as any hardcore fan girl would. It is the perfect name for it because that’s exactly what it is.
“I’m not sure what I am. I just know there’s something dark in me. I hide it. I certainly don’t talk about it, but it’s there always, this Dark Passenger. And when he’s driving, I feel alive, half sick with the thrill of complete wrongness. I don’t fight him, I don’t want to. He’s all I’ve got. Nothing else could love me, not even… especially not me. Or is that just a lie the Dark Passenger tells me? Because lately there are these moments when I feel connected to something else… someone. It’s like the mask is slipping and things… people… who never mattered before are suddenly starting to matter. It scares the hell out of me.”
― Jeff Lindsay,
Okay, so for once I’m talking (writing) about it. I’m hoping I’ll snap out of it, because unlike Dexter, I don’t feel alive when she’s driving. I don’t get any thrill from her presence. And I do try to fight her off, because I don’t have Dexter’s sociopathic tendencies, and I refuse to let anything in life, tangible or otherwise, get the best of me. But she is strong, and likes to keep me in her grimy clutches for a day or two, and I feel like Pigpen walking around in a filthy cloud of self-loathing, self-doubt, and dark thoughts.
It sucks, because as anyone with some variation of mental illness knows, it kills your motivation.
Nuh-uh. I’ve got shit to do. I’ve got a NaNoWriMo project to finish. You know, the one I started last November, the one where I wrote 25,099 words out of 50,000? The one that is now at 59,188 words out of 90,000? Yeah, that one. I’m kicking my self in the ass over this because I should have been finished with the shitty first draft of this story by now. If I could write 25,099 words in one month, how come it has taken me two and a half months to write 34,089 more words? I can’t bear the thought of it taking another couple of months to complete the last 30,812 words. No, this isn’t the reason my dark passenger has dropped in to say hello. It’s because she’s here, clouding my brain, trying to convince me that I am not any good at writing, and I should just walk away now before I embarrass the hell out of myself. She tells me I need to listen to my critics, and the people who tell me what I do is a bourgeois hobby, or that I’m taking far too long to get my first draft written – and that I should just give up. Apparently, she has yet to learn that nothing motivates to do something me more, than some asshole telling me that I can’t.