3CB

I haven’t written in a while. Sometimes when that happens, it’s because I’m distracted with the princess and the day job. Other times, it’s because I’m lost in the darkness that resides inside my head.

I’ve been depressed for a while now. It was a soft, subtle shadow at the edges of my brain. But this week, my princess went on a school trip, and all that free time and silent space made my feelings really loud. Usually, when I have a session with depression, I can watch my baby sleep and retain my grip on reality. But this time, she’s far away from home, and there isn’t that much to hold on to.

The depression was triggered by lots of things. Problems at work, end-year reflections, the silence of one friend, the disappearance of another, the death of a third, money matters, and the sudden absence of my purple hair. Yeah, I had an impulsive attack of … something or other … and ended up shedding my dreads.

Ever since my baby left for her trip, I’ve found it harder to wake up. Usually, I struggle for half an hour or more. Then I remind myself that if I don’t get out of bed, my baby can’t eat (or get to school on time). I amble over to her bed and watch her for a few minutes, and that gives me the push I need to throw off my own blanket. But this week, she’s not here, and I’ve been late for work a lot.

My princess motivates me in other ways as well. Everything I do is for her, and that hasn’t changed, but it’s harder to remember when she’s not right here to remind me – and when she’s in teenage mode whenever I call to see how she’s doing. I suppose there’s nothing more lame than your mum calling you in the middle of a fun teen-filled camp, so I totally understand where she’s coming from, but it still stings. A lot. Sigh.

Yesterday, I attended a friend’s memorial, and that sunk my depression to far darker levels. Pat was an awesome guy. We heard stories about the places he went, the things he did, and how he wooed his wife. He was at a point where he seemed happy, alive, accomplished. He had a beautiful wife, two beloved dogs, a job he loved, a house in Runda. And then these people walked into his house and shot him, took him away.

Most people respond to death by recognizing the fragility of life, and choosing to live each moment to the fullest. My response is to wonder why I should bother at all. Why even try when someone can take everything you value in an instant, simply because he can? It’s not that I’m [currently] suicidal or anything. I’m just finding it hard to … well … live. I’m hiding in sugar, lactose, fiction, and reality TV, and my work load is suffering. I’m trying to ride it out, and it’s a pretty awful place to be.

I’ve lost a lot of loved ones and attended many funerals, so I don’t know why this one affected me so much. Maybe it was the randomness of his death. It was so completely unnecessary. I was watching Star Trek this weekend, and Spock tells the doctor, ‘You humans find it easier to accept the death of one than the death of millions.’ In my case, Spock was wrong.

I find myself wondering what the point is. Why work, strive, love, live, just for someone to come and take it all away? Why do we even try? I always tell myself I do it for my daughter, to give her the kind of life she wants to have. But now she’s far away and this form of motivation seems remote and theoretical.

I was talking to … well … God, I suppose, asking him what the point is. People who have religion can hold on to the promise of eternity, the idea that everything here is just a journey, a rehearsal, a preparation for the afterlife. I don’t have that kind of faith, and maybe I never did. So I sit here and I ask God why I should bother coming to work, buying a car, locking my door, just for someone to come and take my life away.

I ask him why we sit here and pretend we’re safe, when we can die in a vault surrounded by bodyguards and electric fencing. I ask him why we bother eating healthy, going on diets, looking both ways before crossing the road, when there are people out there just waiting to shoot you down at the earliest chance.

A quiet voice gave me a simple answer. ‘Because we’re still here.’ We can be miserable, we can be afraid, we can be sad, we can be cautious. We can wonder about the afterlife, or desperately hold on to a promise of paradise with no proof but faith. We can storm around clouded in justified anger spewing hate wherever we go. But for now, we’re still here, so we might as well enjoy it. Hearing that didn’t resolve my sadness, my fear, my sense of hopelessness and loss. But it was answer, and sometimes an answer – any answer – is all you need.

Sometimes life takes you down a few pegs, and it really sucks. I find myself (and some of my team-mates) in the unenviable position of doing interviews. I’ve been luckier than some of the others – I’ve landed four already. Everyone says that means I have mad skills, but after today, I’m not so sure.

I guess life has spoiled me. In the past, my interviewers have been more like woo-ers, giving me all the reasons why I should join their teams. So it’s hard being in a typical interview situation, where the panel expects you to impress them and … gasp … prove yourself. I sat there and presented all the evidence that so wowed previous employers. And they brushed that stuff aside and said, ‘Yeah yeah yeah, but can yo do XYZ?’

Which, of course, I can’t. Le sigh.

They say even the most beautiful woman in the world has some guy out there that’s tired of her sh*t. So I suppose the lesson here is no matter how good you are, there’s always someone that’s looking for that one thing you can’t do. And it’s easy to forget all your blessings and focus on that one failing, especially when four different potential employers point it out. Sometimes, you just don’t have what they’re looking for, and I have two days to remind myself that that’s okay, and find a space where they do need what I have to offer. And if I really think about it, I may have found that space already. So I guess I need to really think about it. Oh well.

♫ It’s the only one you’ve got ♫ Three Doors Down ♫

In an agency, there are about three million fancy job titles. Most of these titles don’t actually mean anything, and among agency employees, the titles are divided into three broad categories – Creative, Client Service, and Admin. The department I fall under is Creative, and my official title is Copywriter.

I read an article about the contradictory characteristics of creative people. I also saw a tweet that claimed the current fad on social media is to call yourself a ‘creative’, because ‘all the cool kids these days work at agencies.’ So it gets a little awkward for someone like me, who actually does work in the creative department of an ad agency. When someone asks what I do for a living, I usually just go with ‘writer’ and focus on my freelance work. It’s easier than getting the derision, knowing glances, and veiled envy reserved for ‘creatives’.

Thing is … the more I read and hear about creatives, the more I worry that I might not actually be one. People call me ‘creative’ all the time, but that’s just because I wear jeans to work, write for six different blogs, and have purple strands in my hair. I think the word they’re really going for is ‘eccentric’, ‘strange’, or even ‘weird’.

My family calls me ‘creative’ because I worked from home for a year and just barely managed to pay my bills. They’re from the conservative office culture, so this ‘freelancing thing’ (and the single mom thing, and the rock music thing, and the goth tattoos thing, and the making money online thing) makes me some sort of alien.

Back to social media, ‘creative’ is the new ‘hustler’. I read that on a tweet too. It’s a vague, generic term that covers writers, designers, DJs, events people, art directors, dancers, stage poets, musicians, sketch artists, emcees, random agency personnel, anything really. And it sounds a lot more professional than saying you’re in ‘the arts’, which would make people assume you’re an unpaid resident at National Theatre.

Creatives are thought to be a pretty wild bunch. They have tequila for breakfast, inhale coffee, smoke like chimneys, and routinely sample hard drugs mild stimulants space cookies. Me, I’m one of the only people in the office that turns down free tequila on non-religious grounds and consciously avoids staff parties.

While my fellow creatives thrive on long hours, leave the office at midnight, and hold brag-fests about who’s survived the longest without sleep, I sneak walk out of the office as early as possible. I also get to the office before eight, but that’s because my hours are dictated by my baby’s school timetable. I’m no more a ‘morning person’ than any other creative, who routinely strolls into the office at 10.

One typical creative character trait I possess is that I constantly bitch about how hard it is to come with ideas … and then I come up with them anyway, sometimes in record time. It’s the creative’s nightmare, because the next time you bitch about last-minute briefs and ask for more time, nobody takes you seriously. Sigh.

According to the article, the true mark of a creative is the ability to pick unusual associations of ideas. You see things that other people don’t see, and you bring them together in ways that make them fit perfectly, or seem to. Then, because it’s such a subconscious process for you, you worry that others will spot you for the fraud that you are. You’re pretty good at hiding your insecurities about your work, but deep down, not even the largest raise, loudest compliment, or shiniest trophy will convince you otherwise.

That’s probably why so many creatives are substance addicts – they’re chasing their next big idea, trying to stay awake, and desperately hiding from their own inadequacy. I suppose in that one aspect – at least when it comes to my work at the agency – then I am a creative. And my chosen addictions? Long walks, rock music, unusual reading material, random bursts of sunshine, and lots and lots of sugar. Twende kazi.

♫ Broken wings ♫ Alter Bridge ♫