The Depressed Writer

​by Jarad Johnson 

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​Writers are depressed people. That’s the stereotype, right? Poe, Hemingway, and a slew of other melancholics who, for some reason, feel compelled to put pen to paper.
Well, at the moment that’s how I’m feeling right now, and I’m always one to capitalize on suffering, so I’m going to tell you (whoever or whatever you is) what’s keeping me up at night.
Wallow with me, won’t you? 

I used to say that because I didn’t have a garden, that was why I was unhappy.
But it’s been years now, and I guess I’m used to it. It’s funny how things are going well for me, and I still feel like I’ve achieved none of my goals.
My goals, broadly, are to have some sort of homestead, where there are lots of gardens and animals and I live in the middle of the woods, unbothered and with lots of quiet.
Seems simple enough, doesn’t it? What, you thought I would say I wanted a mansion on some island with some euro trash cars and a harem of men at my beck and call?
Well, I don’t, except maybe the men, and some money might be nice, but I could give a shit about cars.
None of that has happened, although I am much, much closer than I have ever been to achieving it. I think that makes it worse. I am an impatient person. I also feel that my ability to write is directly linked to my ability to garden. One doesn’t exist without the other.
It’s why I haven’t written in a while. Sure, friends have let me help them in their gardens, and I have plants on a balcony.
It isn’t enough. And at this point in my life, I say fuck you to, “making the best of it,” and “settling.”
I wrote for this blog, Sacred Chickens, for years, and I remember what it was like to have the inspiration and the drive and the want to write, all day every day. Then I had a garden. Actually, I was mostly digging up my mom’s yard and planting seeds, hoping for the best. I think that’s the happiest I’ve ever been, except the living with the mother part.
The garden gave me purpose, and I feel like that is my natural habitat. Truth be told, I’ve always felt mal adapted to this world. I never seem to be able to say the right thing or do the right thing, I always stand out, I never fit or conform when it’s expected that I will. Nor do I want to.
And now, I say to myself, I’ve found the solution! Make more money! Of course, you need money to do the things I want to do (really, you need money to do anything, don’t you?). The solution presented itself- moving across the country (I was going to do that anyway at some point probably, but still, it was the first step), getting a new job, a new apartment. Unable to afford a U-Haul, I threw away or gave away most of my possessions, loaded the car with my clothes, books and two cats, and moved to the beautiful remote end of the Appalachian Mountains. I regret none of this by the way. But as I said, writers are depressives.
I am sometimes (er, always) single minded in my pursuits. Thankfully, I have no talent for business or the stock market (I couldn’t even begin to tell you how it works) or I would probably be one of those billionaire assholes ruining the planet. Everything I have done in the last three years, and I do mean everything, has been in service to this goal. It has become, somewhat unintentionally, the sole focus that occupies me. Sure, I have other professional and personal goals, but if they do not align with my major goals of being a homesteader and being left the fuck alone in the woods somewhere, they aren’t going to happen.
Now, let me be clear here. I do think I will achieve this goal, in fact I think I will do so soon, but not having my hands in the earth is like having a missing limb for me. I don’t feel whole, and I wanted to complain about it. Should I have said that sooner? Maybe you wouldn’t have read this far, hmm? Never assume I’m a reliable narrator.
Anyway, I’ve moved across the country, gotten an apartment (which is still pathetically empty by the way) gotten a new job, and again, my mind, ever the black cloud of worry, begins to wonder. I wonder how I will have time to tend to my homestead, acres of gardens and lots of animals, if I’m working away from home 9-5, five days a week? What is even the point of buying a house if I’m not able to be there? Of course, I have a plan for that as well (it involves getting a newer and better job. Ha!) but I worry my plans won’t come to fruition, and I’ll be stuck in some office cubicle, corporate hell.
But of course, I’m too stubborn and too determined for it not to. You’d think that would provide me with some comfort. It does not. I never feel at ease until the thing is actually over. Life is an endless stream of waiting for things to happen, and if I’m only happy when they’re finished, maybe when I die, keel over, kick the bucket, I’ll be happy. Though somehow, I doubt it
I’m reminded of a quote from Dune, by the Bene Gesserit. “We don’t hope. We plan.”
“But maybe it isn’t possible”, my mind whispers.
“Possible doesn’t interest me,” I reply, “what interests me is getting what I want.”
“Shut up and go to sleep, you insipid little monster”, I say to my brain, as I continue to worry.
With this level of commitment, I could rule the world. Be thankful I just want to grow vegetables and have chickens and goats.
I’ve been called resilient before. Want to know why? I torture myself more than anyone else ever could. Now you must suffer reading this, I guess.
I’m reminded of my grandmother, as I often am. When she was nearing the end of her life, and I had a garden at my mom’s house, we checked her out of her nursing home (I wanted to say kidnapped here because it sounds more exciting, but let’s stay in reality, if we can). When she arrived at the house, she was amazed at the cosmos and zinnias filling the flowerbed (and the area around it to be honest). She loved butterflies, and they were everywhere that day. It’s one of my favorite memories of her. It makes me sad that I won’t be able to show her the zinnias and cosmos I will plant around my house.
She also grew up on a cotton and tobacco farm. She left school in the 8th grade (she was born in 1930) to help her family pick cotton by hand on the farm. My great grandmother, by all accounts, enjoyed her life there.  She had a giant vegetable garden, a dog and other animals. I recall a photo of her parents standing in front of a humble farmhouse, with roses planted in front of it. I actually didn’t know any of this until recently, and I often wonder if that is why I am so driven to live the way I aspire to.
My great grandmother eventually had to leave the farm, when her husband got a job as a police officer in town. According to my mother, she was never quite happy there. She did plant zinnias and cosmos outside of her apartment every year though. The one I live in, sadly, won’t even allow nails in the wall, and I doubt they’d take kindly to me digging up their perfectly pristine and pretentious lawn, which they have mowed weekly. This, might I add, makes it hard to keep the windows open, and without fail pisses me off every week when they start at 8am. Dear reader, you must know that it is only my formidable strength of will that keeps my eyeballs from rolling so hard they detach from my skull.  
To this day, I still cook out of her cast iron skillet, passed down to my grandmother and then to me. It’s funny to me how I’m sort of returning to that way of life in some ways. I don’t want to be an actual farmer, but a homestead is still a productive place. I also grew up hanging my clothes on a line, little to no air conditioner, and I’m still not sure about dishwashers.
But anyway, that’s not especially poetic, but an endings and ending and I need to go worry myself to sleep some more.

Originally published on Jarad's universally loved and widely read substack. Follow him here: ​https://substack.com/@jaradjohnson1?utm_source=user-menu