I recently read Pain, Suffering And Developing Creativity by Douglas Eby, published at Design Taxi. I began thinking about again about my own formerly turbulent inner life and its relationship to my creativity.

I think of my life as having 3 distinct phases. There was ‘childhood.’ Then there was ‘married with children,’ which started when I was 18 and continued for over 20 years.

Then there is the phase I’m in now: Life with Zoloft.

Because, you see, the first two parts of my life were spent on a wounded emotional roller coaster of painful shyness, self-loathing, over-sensitivity, and general misery. It was crippling, but not completely debilitating. Off and on, I still wrote poetry, short stories, musicals, and a novel, held a job or two, finished my fine arts degree in creative writing, even did some volunteer work. (In addition to being a wife and mother of 3.)

But it was all under the heavy, dark, burdensome yoke of depression that followed me everywhere like my own personal thunderstorm. No matter what I tried to do – positive thinking, exercise, meditation, religion – the storm was always in me, rumbling in my bottomless chasm of unfulfillable need, as I called it in my reams and reams of soul-searching journal writing from those years.

Not only did I carry all that within me, it only became darker and louder as years went by, until it was in fact debilitating. I was nearly housebound. My creative well was dry, confined to a few bloody motifs that I’d been circling for years. I faked life well, though, and my family and few friends had no idea the degree to which I suffered internally.

And despite my constant yearning to make a career for myself in writing, art, or graphic design, even the thought of putting together a portfolio or applying for a job gave me panic attacks.

Then, in a desperate final cry for help, I asked my doctor for Zoloft for social anxiety. As far as I was concerned, the terror of interacting with other people was my main problem. I was so accustomed to the inner turmoil that bad seemed normal. If only I could eliminate the social anxiety, I could do something meaningful in the world.

Fast-forward 5+ years. That old me is like a nightmare that I remember and I’m so glad now to be awake. I’ve apologized to my wonderful supportive husband and to my children for any and all spillover of misery. I’ve made new friends, gone back to school, learned things I never thought of before, and my life is an expanding universe of wonder and peace.

Perfection? Phooey on perfection. It doesn’t exist. So, no, my life isn’t perfect. Crappy things still happen. I still make mistakes. And sometimes, life has a few more thorns than roses.

But the difference is that my inner psyche is on an even keel, able to deal with anything life puts in front of me. My new job with the National Park Service involves public speaking on a regular basis, which I enjoy! A far cry from where I was just a few short years ago, when even the idea of speaking to a stranger made me nauseous.

So what about my creative work? Well, for a while there, I didn’t create much. Being creative was so tied up in my previous misery that without the misery I felt I had no material to write about.

Instead, I spent time rediscovering myself. I learned what the new, improved me liked to do, how I could interact with the world, and what I felt about everything now that the shadow of depression and fear was gone. I found my new voice, my new vision, and new knowledge and new beliefs.

Of course, everything didn’t change. I still enjoy gothic literature and gargoyles. I still like to study abnormal psychology and psychopathy. I still like Lovecraft and King and Hitchcock and Mystery Science Theater 3000. But it’s like I’m seeing these things in sunshine now, rather than obscured by my own mask of distorted afflictions. It’s hard to explain.

But I also became able to embrace new adventures that I never even considered before. Like painting and crafting in my own personal evolving style. And birding. And giving nature talks at the park. And pursuing graduate degrees.

Like the article suggests, I can remember enough misery from my former existence to create all the drama and conflict my artwork might need to be interesting. I have no desire to live waist deep in that misery now that I’ve experienced the alternative.

And I don’t think my creative work has suffered. In fact, I think it has grown and expanded, particularly in subject matter, but also in courage and daring as I take on new subjects and new techniques in my own newly discovered personal style.

My muse now lives at the intersection of nature, art, literature, and philosophy, not at a bottomless chasm of self-loathing. It’s no longer meaningless misery, but insight into what life can mean when we follow our passions into new and unexplored territory.

I’m not a medical doctor, but if you are living in a swirling cesspool of endless unhappiness, I strongly urge you to get help from a medical doctor. Maybe that help comes in a pill. Maybe therapy. Maybe both. But there can be something better.