I'm out of motivation.
I had so much just a couple years ago. I moved to Seattle, I Went To School. I cared about grades and projects and drawing and networking and Having a Career. I struggled, but I kept going. I got excited when photoshoots were planned, and looked forward to seeing the resulting pics. My only angst stemmed from a bad relationship, but even in that I trucked along, enjoying the good parts and trying to skim the bad.
No more.
Around a year ago, the first major depression started its slow creep into my little cave. I failed classes; couldn't get up in the morning to attend them. Couldn't muster enough pencil power to finish assignments. Soon I just stopped being able to care. I tried various antidepressants; Paxil being the most effective until it bit me in the ass one day. Now Lexapro keeps me just slightly above water.
I don't care about Professional Illustration anymore. I don't want to go to school, I'm not interested in theater or art or homework. My only motivation is fear of disappointing my loved ones. It's not that I'm ignoring my heart's desire in order to secure a Real Life for myself, I have no heart's desire. If I had my way, I'd sleep most of the day, emerging only to work on various personal projects and read books. Or not. I would never leave the house.
Whine whine whine. Why don't I just off myself? Well, aside from the fact that suicide is cliche, I really don't want to put my friends and family through it. On top of that, I have no way of knowing if I'll actually go through with it or chicken out after I've cut the artery or swallowed the pills or whatever, and end up with a huge medical bill and an embarassing story like many of the people I know.
The saga of the poor white college student. Barely twenty and already a leech on the ass of the Veteran's Administration.
I'm just sickened by it all. The creeping ferment of excess bodies in dead-end jobs. I am destined for mediocrity and struggle for the rest of my life. I'm not interested in aging, maturation, development of careers and lives. I don't want to own a house and have a mate and a pet and a kid and a job. I don't care about canvas and paint, or Photoshop and my Wacom. I'm sad and sleepy all the time, brooding or comatose or exalted by the hour. I have pains behind my eyes and fits of impenetrable melancholy.
But along with all this "artistic temperment", there is no art to pay for it. No great charge of creativity or genius. My output is almost nil, and the art I do produce doesn't move me. I don't really care for it.
Oh, to have some machine to give me great joy in drudgery. To give me interest in some goal, some end product. I have no end products. I do not understand the process of being or doing something else because of something I do today. I live right now, and at no other time.
Other people I know who are in the same situation, or a worse one, they seem to have dreams and drives. They seem to be rewarded by the fruits of their labor. A good grade or decent piece of drawing only makes me feel vaguely relieved, as if I've averted some danger. My happiness and sadness is completed unrelated to actual events, perhaps due to some psychological malfunction, so I cannot learn what pleases me.
Well, there's one thing. I get a slight charge out of the tiny feats of engineering I accomplish around the house. Finding creative ways to fix things or hang them up or mend pipes without the traditional tools. It's possible I would be good at plumbing or the like.
I'm considering going into the seamanship program at the local community college. It would allow me to work with materials on long voyages away from society, in places where I could just do my job and work hard and not be bothered with picky bullshit like apartments and things.
I've also considered retirement into mental health facilities (too expensive), becoming a nun (I'm not religious, plus they might make me crusade against gays or something asinine), getting a teaching or vet tech degree (maybe if I'm only motivated by others, I should work harder for them), or just becoming a hobo (I hate panhandlers).
This is a phase.
Everyone feels like this at my age.
I'll get through it.
I just need to buckle down.
I don't know if I believe any of that. I think it may just boil down to me not being mature enough to handle surviving in this society. I can't go home; I don't want to embarrass my parents like that. Sponging off your family is terribly tacky, and I certainly wouldn't feel better about myself if I were twenty and living with Mommy. I love Mommy. She doesn't deserve that.
...
No, I have no solution. I'm going to wait, and problem-solve, and make enough money to live on. And that's it. Maybe something will come to me. If by age 25 I have not gotten my shit together, it will definitely be time to give up. Peace Corps or the Army or suicide or something. Anything but this.