identity crisis

I’m grasping for an identity.

Because you see, it’s always been about work.

For years, my identity was in my status in my non-profit work.

Then, I struggled when I became dependent on SSDI.

Then, I took up photography.

Then, I opened a photography business.

And, for eight full years, I basked in my status as a very part-time wedding and portrait photographer. I may have been very part-time, the business may not have been profitable, but by golly, I was an official photographer.

And then, earlier this year, for a variety of reasons I won’t go into both heath-wise and money-wise, it became the prudent thing to close the business.

And at the time, I told myself I would still be a hobbyist photographer.

And then money got tighter– or more to the point, I got more serious about managing our finances more responsibly, and it became the wise thing to part with some of my camera gear.

And I didn’t take more pictures for myself, my own personal art, like I said I was going to do.

And life happened, and interpersonal drama happened, and my hormones are still settling from the hysterectomy, and….

Well, depressed.

And worse: struggling with a major identity crisis.

And of late, I’ve felt like the answer was to move us all into Atlanta, away from Carrollton.

The truth is, I know I can’t run from my depression. It will follow me.

And, this house that I am sitting in, when we bought it in 2021, was my dream house. It was the house I wanted to grow old in just like the elderly people who lived here (twice) before us did. The primary bathroom is already outfitted for disability access, even.

*sigh* I don’t know what I am doing.

I do know that my psych professional says that seasonal affective disorder is on the rise earlier this year, and so I am sitting here just before bed (the wrong time of day, but I give myself points for doing it at all) with my light therapy lamp as she recommended I start now instead of waiting until late October like normal.

And, it’s time to write more. I let myself get so caught up in analytics, and audiences, and I forget that the most productive, happiest years of my blogging was when I was using my blog primarily as my journal. And yes, I wanted readers, but the readers came because the content was raw. And real.

So, here I am, telling you I am still depressed. And I don’t know where it’s going.

And true to form in typical fashion, in an effort to bat away the true identity crisis and deal with it, a crap ton of job applications went out yesterday.

Because I keep running from what I need to do: process my traumas, figure out who I am apart from being a wife, mother, and any vocation, and remember that I have been a writer since I was eight years old and that is how I deal with my feelings best.

Stay tuned. I’m going to try to post more regularly.