Depression has symptoms. They may be obvious or subtle, but mostly they have one thing in common: feelings
I’ve been writing since I can remember. I would write for everyone or just for myself, for specific groups or individual people. Some people need to run, to cook, to be outdoors or to see friends every day; I needed to write, even when I didn’t read my own writings.
For two years I lost the pleasure in doing one of the things that I enjoyed the most. I lost count of the times I put a pillow behind my back and made myself comfortable with a laptop on my lap, only to shut it down soon thereafter since I could barely write a sentence. I tried it with new and old notebooks, with fancy pens, I tried in the evenings and in the mornings, I used candles and music, I tried at home and in cafés, while travelling or in random places. I even went on a winter retreat to a small town in the south of an island, to spend four days totally dedicated to writing.
Yet nothing would come out.