Something happened to me yesterday.

Before I attempt to explain my so-called revelation, let us step back for a moment and reflect on yours truly. I, Derek Joseph O’Neal, am a writer. I have always identified as such. I knew that I was a writer from the moment I picked up my first pencil and I will continue to be a writer until I draw my last breath and my ashes are scattered to the wind. It is one of those inherent feelings. It is who I am.

Unfortunately, I have been experiencing for a number of years what most writers tend to fear and often dread: writer’s block. Most commonly, writer’s block is attributed to anxiety, a mood with which I am all too familiar. Caused by an excess of both stress and depression, I let my anxiety get the best of me. I let it silence my words and for quite some time, I have felt physically incapable of sharing my stories with the world. Being unable to utilize your craft is one of the most destructive feelings for a storyteller… or any artist for that matter.

You might be asking yourself how someone as outgoing as myself — someone who laughs as much as I do — could ever suffer from depression severe enough to silence. First, know that not everyone who experiences depression exhibits telltale signs. It is also important to realize that there is a great difference between laughter and happiness. I freely admit that very little makes me happy.

The people who understand me best would say that you can see it in my eyes. Their ever constant saddened state can only be described as burden bearers. I am an intuitive listener and as such, I “feel” the masses. When you are disheartened by something and cannot express it, I sense it and am saddened for you. When you are angered, without words, I feel your fury and convert it to wrath. I feed on the emotions of my peers and give it back tenfold. In short, I am an emotional sponge that redistributes feelings at much more intense degrees. It has been said that my mood has the ability to alter an entire room of people. While I do not deny the legitimacy of the statement, it is first your mood that affects me. Only after I absorb and modify it does the atmosphere change.

There is a burning rage within me that is not easily snuffed. It is there when I wake and sleep, always waiting for opportunity. Because of this, rage is one of my favorite emotions. It is one of the easiest to bring out in others. Some people are quick to crack, while select few have an innate ability to reject such a powerful emotion, but only for a while. It just takes finesse and time.

Time has never been a friend of mine. I lack patience except when it comes to creation. In an effort to restrain my spread of toxic emotion, I am constantly trying to keep myself occupied by starting new projects. The lack of finishing one is where my internal struggle lies. Over seven years have passed since I was proud to put my name on a project. In fact, it might be closer to ten years by now; I lost track long ago. Time is my archenemy. I have squandered the better part of a decade filling my precious time with mundane tasks to earn nickels that are not worth the wasted time. I am tired of holding dead-end positions that require minimal mental stimulation. The only thing stimulated by said occupations is my rage. I have a sexy brain and it needs to be tried, tested, and pushed to its limits.

Just because my voice was squelched for so long does not mean that my creativity suffered the same fate. I am one of the most creative people you will ever meet. A daydreamer by nature, those who have spoken to me longer than five minutes know the extent of my creativity. I have plenty of fantastic ideas, but lack the time to execute them. In the end, it is only my freedom that I seek… freedom to create on my own terms without the constraints of someone else’s clock. When I create, all I need is an overabundance of time, yet time is a commodity that I do not possess.

I have only had one job that I enjoyed and it involved working with my hands, creating. I designed and crafted custom wooden frames at a wood shop. There is something overly gratifying about working with your hands and being paid to do so. While the pay was not amazing, I loved my work, so it mattered not. The job also included an element of danger, which I enjoyed. I got to work with many different saws, most of which would not think twice to steal a finger or limb if used carelessly. As with most good things, it did not last. The company tanked, was purchased, and relocated too far away for travel. With it went my happiness. It took me longer than I care to admit to understand why I loved that job so much.

By the time I came to the realization that I loved working with my hands, I was knee-deep in a well-paid job that I loathed. Instead of sacrificing my paychecks and finding a position more fitting to my desires, I stayed and began hating life more with each passing day. The years came and went. I satisfied my ever-growing depression by spending my leftover money on things that I did not need. Each brought me temporary happiness, but none could change my life in the ways that it needed. No worldly possessions could fill the void that I created for myself when I stopped creating. I knew that I was not happy, yet I did nothing to better my situation. The only thing I did — and did well, mind you — was complain about how there were not enough hours in the day to focus on the things that I actually wanted to do in life.

What I failed to realize is that I am in control. This is my life after all. Why should I continue to feel like a hostage in my own life?

I decided last year that I needed to move away from all distractions, hoping that would give me the peace and solitude that I needed. Instead, where I lost distractions, I replaced them with new ones. It seemed that my life had become one giant distraction. I just wanted to find solace.

Two months ago, I began a second job, working on my days off. In this position, I work with my hands and have the ability to create and destroy, two of my favorite things. As with the wood shop, there is an element of danger involved, which is rather thrilling. To top things off, I have the opportunity to earn a handsome amount of money doing something that I enjoy as well as having more free time. Everything about this job is a dream, but with any dream comes uncertainty. The company’s future has yet to be determined, but that does not bother me. There are those who believe that I should stick with certainty, only placing bets on the sure thing. There is absolutely nothing exciting about that. I want to be unsure of what tomorrow brings instead of knowing that I will hate every moment of it.

Let us get back to yesterday, shall we?

Something happened to me yesterday.

In all actuality, something happened to me this week. I “called out” from life and the result was one of the best weeks of my existence. I was able to devote all of my time and attention to the thing that I love most: creating. I drew, painted, and wrote. I felt like an artist again. It was only yesterday that I truly woke up, so to speak. The beast woke from its slumber and has no intention of returning to dormancy.

After a full day of working with my hands, sweating, getting dirt under my nails, and working with intelligent company that I actually care to be around, I understood that nothing else mattered anymore. I realized yesterday that this was what I wanted out of life. I want to come home from work worn out and muscles aching, knowing that I just put in a solid day’s work. This job offers an equal mix of hard labor and mental stimulation, both things that I yearn. Working with power tools and dangerous equipment is somewhat new to me. While it might take me longer than the average laborer to be fully comfortable with this craft, at least I can say with pride that I am thorough. Speed will come with knowledge and time.

When I got home from work last night, I forwent a shower, immediately parked my dirty ass in a dark room, in front of a blank screen, and began writing my first novel. You know, the one I have been talking about for years. Seeing my words for the first time in years… writing, rewriting… it felt wonderful.

The writer’s block is gone and I cannot be happier.

To continue this feat of new-found happiness, I will no longer participate in activities that I hate or cause mental anguish. That being said, I have decided to forfeit my first job. I can no longer work for large corporations filled with simple-minded people enforcing an agenda that I neither believe in nor desire. Some will find this decision rash, and while it may be, I have no regrets. For once in too many years, I have found true happiness and no one will stand in my way. I am more proud of myself right now than I have ever been. If you cannot be happy for me, then you are one of my creative oppressors and you can gladly go fuck yourself.

Do not bother asking me about survival; a little poverty never hurt anyone. I will survive. I always do. It is my nature.