Several years ago I began wearing glasses, the desire to see clearly finally outweighing my stubbornness and inability to ask for assistance. I didn’t wear glasses for ninety-someodd percent of my life, so it’s still uncomfortable and unusual for me to consider myself “someone who wears glasses.” Trust me, I know how silly that sounds.
Just this morning I was lamenting the amount of schmutz on my glasses, and (what feels like) the constant act of cleaning them. I thought to myself “do people who wear glasses have to deal with this?” and I caught myself – what a silly statement for me to make. I wear glasses and I have to deal with it. That isn’t to say that other people do or do not, but it’s not the kind of thing that sticks in my memory, seeing others clean their glasses.
I suppose this goes back to my rather black-and-white approach to many things in life, which I’ve discussed before in this post category. To me there is a big difference between being something and being someone who does something – not everyone who writes is a writer, as the most common self-referential example.
Recently my psychiatrist and I changed my medication slightly to deal with the near-constant anxiety I was feeling from work and social situations, and while the change to my mood has been a net positive, my drive and inspiration to write has gone down dramatically. I had this small epiphany this morning and figured I should get it committed to proverbial paper before the thoughts vanished. With any luck things will improve and I’ll be able to get on a more consistent posting schedule, or at least more regular, in the near future.