Depression & Creativity...

 

 

November 13, 2014

“I never made one of my discoveries through the process of rational thinking." ~ Albert Einstein

I'm about to get very personal. 

Let me just preface this blog entry with the statement that I do not believe myself to be a creative "genius" by any stretch of the imagination.  I'm an imperfect little writer who's continuously trying to better her craft.  I will likely never be a New York Times bestselling writer; I will likely never win a Pulitzer.  And I'm okay with that.  But there were many mentions in this article that I read regarding correlations between depression and creative "genius" that I felt it pertinent that I get that statement out of the way.  I believe this article was meant to be more focused around creative types in general; i.e. those that create either the written word, pieces of art, or music. 

This article brought up a lot of interesting questions for me regarding creativity and depression and how they are often interlinked for some people.  I found this fascinating namely because I suffer from both afflictions.

I started writing at a very young age.  Once I turned sixteen, I was afflicted with a pretty deep depression.  My body was changing; I was becoming a woman.  I was trying to figure out who I was in the midst of all of these changes.  I was trying to find a niche in the world and in my friends at school.  And while, in retrospect, it doesn't seem like traumatic a scenario, at the time it was my entire world. 

I withdrew.  As I often do when I feel that familiar melancholy drift over me.  I flaked out on friends.  I spent a lot of time in my room.  I read every book I could get my hands on, thirsty for answers within their pages to questions that I hadn't yet quite been able to form. 

And, most importantly, I wrote.

That's when something wonderful happened.  I discovered poetry.  There were no rules, no reason behind the structure and flow.  Writing poetry was a place that I could just dance uninhibited, not constrained by anything other than the limits of my own imagination.  Chaucer, Swift, Dunne, Poe; too many wonderful pioneers to name.  I found freedom and kinship with writers who had been dead for years. 

I found myself.

Writing held a release for me; I could be whoever I wanted to be in my words.  I could create anything I wanted; I could make the impossible come true.  I was hesitant to show anyone what I was writing, but I'm glad I did.  Often in life, there are certain things that you should inherently know.  But our eyes usually aren't truly opened to our strengths until they're acknowledged by someone else.  Sad but true little fact of human psychology.  The people I showed my writing to weren't repelled as I thought they would be; they didn't give me a strange, sideways glance.  They looked up at me with wide eyes and smiled. 

"You wrote this?!"  And I would nod slightly, a bemused smile growing on my face. 

"Do you have any more?"

That's when I knew that I might actually have a gift.  I certainly wasn't the best, and I'm still not; I'm constantly striving towards improvement.  But it was that moment; someone who wasn't a friend of mine, who had no stake in my self-confidence at all, telling me that I was a good writer.

My confidence grew.  I began writing more.  The depression eased back.  I had things to look forward to.  I had a project to focus on. 

Writing saved me.

The article was interesting.  It discussed the environmental causes for an artist to be susceptible to depression: isolation, intense self-examination, lack of exercise, poor diet, irregular hours, lack of sunlight exposure.  We're all little sad vampires moping around, lost in our own little worlds, trying to create something brilliant.

And the reasons for depression are often different for everyone.  Obviously life situations lend heavily to depression; genetic predispositions are also a commonly held belief.  But what I was most interested in was this: does our creativity and act of creating make us depressed or are we depressed when we cannot create?

The chicken or the egg: which comes first?

For me, as illustrated in the example above, creating was a release from the static depression that I was going through.  Perhaps that's why my process is so isolating.  (I may have had a mild epiphany just now writing this entry).

When I write, I need to disappear completely.  Kiss my husband, disappear into my office, lock the door, turn on my writing music, and completely absorb myself into the project.  During this process, I find that I almost have to revert back to that melancholy (if you've read any of my novels, you'll understand why).  ;)  Not exactly rainbows and sunshine.  But perhaps this is my process, one that I've utilized for over two decades, because that's how I first began. 

Melancholy.  And then creation.  Rinse.  Repeat.

Over the years, I've danced with depression a few more times.  Even still, I withdraw.  Disappear.  I'm a generally happy person except for these rare occasions; that's why I prefer to withdraw.  I don't want people to see me at my most vulnerable. 

Perhaps this is why I write.  For a momentary release from the persistent vulture on my back.  Or perhaps my writing is the source for the sadness. 

Each time, though, I know that I'll find my way back out.

As I always do. 

~ Angela Darling

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