Starting this post has been no easy feat. I’m a writer. An artist. Exposing myself and putting my heart on the line is something I do within every piece I create. But this… is never really easy to talk about.
I’ve been writing and editing my second book in my Black Tears series. Within my series, my antagonist is involved a rogue underground group that is part of the entire universal system of existence. In order to create them in the best of detail, I had to dig deep and use my most frightening monsters yet: my demons.
A lot of authors utilize their own personal hells in their work. J.K. used Dementors as a symbol of her depression. Dreadful beings that suck the life right out of you. Which, if you have ever suffered serious depression, is pretty spot on.
I find, unfortunately, when I’m writing about my antagonist and his followers, I get sucked right back into a vicious cycle. I guess that makes me the real deal, but it isn’t any fun. I have suffered from a dark depression since childhood. Suicide was plotted, but never any real follow through. Unlike Dementors, my demons show up when I’m looking in the mirror. My self-inflicted torment transforms me into an unrecognizable creature with horrible intentions (see my book cover above). In those moments, I felt I could do the most evil of things and escape by means of my own death. Lose myself back into the blackness of the universe and do everyone I ever knew a favor by releasing the burden.
As is the case with most people, no one ever knew. I was hidden by the facade of a bubbly personality. The irony: that was my saving grace. People started to tell me how my happy-go-lucky personality really brightened their day. They loved being around me. The more they told me, the more I believed it. The more I believed it, the more real it became. I eventually realized that I couldn’t ever leave. Not because I would be missed, but because I would miss them. I wanted to be in their lives for… everything! I wanted to meet new people and explore the world! There would have been so much that I didn’t want to miss out on. Now, I have become addicted to living so much, that the thought of not living in the moment scares me. I know those monsters are still there. Still lurking and waiting for any vulnerable moment to feast on my insecurity. I won’t lie, I have moments that I succumb, but I am stronger these days. It was my people who helped me get here.
The photo in this post is of my creation of what it looks like, when I see myself smothered in my own personal hell. So, the next time you’re reading a book and come across some foul creature, appreciate the dark corner that author had to explore within themselves to create a story for you.