Why are melancholics tired all the time?

Melancholics are tired pretty much all the time.

Why is this?

Well, firstly we need to remember that melancholics are unexcitable, but with long-lasting impressions.

Being unexcitable translates directly into having “low energy” for most things in life. When something doesn’t excite you, it’s hard to be motivated or enthusiastic or any of the other mental states we associate with not being tired.

Having long-lasting impressions means we’re often preoccupied. We can’t just “go with the flow” because we have our own pre-existing velocity. These long-lasting impressions also take energy. It means instead of waking up in the morning and saying “what a wonderful new day! I wonder what today has in store?” you wake up with a sense of direct continuity from the day before….and the day before that.

You don’t get to forget, and so you don’t get to feel refreshed.

So that’s two causes of tiredness in a melancholic. By contrast, a choleric shares our long-lasting impressions, but is easily excited. That means the choleric gets a lot of energy from life.

On the other side, phlegmatics are as unexcitable as we are, but they don’t form long-lasting impressions. They get to forget. Each day can be a new day where they rediscover all the same unexciting things they rediscovered yesterday, fresh and new.

That’s why melancholics are predisposed to tiredness and fatigue. But in addition to the direct effects of temperament, the melancholic is also liable to develop character traits that contribute to tiredness and fatigue.

For example, a melancholic is more likely to respond to a hostile environment by suppressing their responses. Growing up, a melancholic is more likely to err on the side of caution, holding back and second-guessing their instincts in order to adapt to their circumstances.

The result is that the melancholic is at risk of developing a facade or fake-self, a mode of interpersonal interaction that restricts and denies their natural impulses. Melancholic caution and slowness lead to habitual self-doubt and a self-centred approach to conflict resolution. The melancholiic looks first to how he can change himself to resolve the conflicts in his world.

I think the melancholic, more so than the other temperaments, risks denying his own spontaneous impulses and excitability even further. The melancholic risks arriving at rules of behaviour that may be effective but deny his or her own self.

This self-denial might feel noble, ascetic, or superior, but because it conflicts with the melancholic’s deeper self, their already scant resources are further limited and squandered simply to maintain this complex internal dynamic, this inner tension.

In summary, we are unexcitable and find it hard to refresh and let go. On top of that, we’re liable to tie ourselves in knots trying to fit into our environment rather than changing the environment to suit ourselves. Our limited energy is depleted in fighting against ourselves.

In my experience, it’s simply not possible to become as energetic as a sanguine or a choleric, nor as placid as a phlegmatic.

But we can at least recognise our natural limits, and more importantly we can try to reduce the inner conflicts and tensions that drain our energy before we even start our day.

To this end, it helps to know that our true self is good. In most religions and philosophies, human beings are either born or created good, but something goes wrong along the way.

The point is that we don’t need to add new layers to our personality. We don’t need to tie ourselves up further. We need to get rid of layers, and untie the knots, trusting that what lies beneath it all will be whole and true.

Ultimately, these layers and knots are based on falsehoods and misunderstandings. That’s why knowing the truth will set us free.

What does it take to be a writer?

My goal at this stage is to make enough money from my writing that I don’t have to return to the kind of absurd job I just left.

That might sound like an impossible goal, or at least a very difficult one, but at this stage merely ‘surviving’ as a writer is highly preferable to the kind of situation I was in previously.  If I could earn half of my previous income from writing, I would consider myself very fortunate.  If I could earn a quarter, my family could survive comfortably.

Whether that is plausible, or sustainable in the long term remains to be seen.

Here’s what I’ve achieved so far:

In a little over a month I’ve spent more than 80 hours working on articles.  That’s just over 3.5 solid hours of work each weekday.

I’ve written 10 viable articles, 5 of which have been published so far.  Including drafts, I’ve written more than 20,000 words.

This doesn’t include research time, general reading time, and all the other things I spend my time on, such as my Phd, and changing dirty nappies.

It’s a huge amount of work, and I find I have to keep reminding myself how much I’ve done so I don’t wander around wondering why I feel so fatigued.

I’ve been rejected several times, and while it’s disappointing, the greater frustration lies in not being able to keep working.  A successfully published article brings me a great deal of energy and enthusiasm.  It confirms that I’m on the right track, and motivates me to write more.

It’s important not to get too dejected when the work slows down.  There are always other things to do, like reading and study to expand your knowledge and enrich your understanding. Even though being unable to progress leaves a bad taste in your mouth, it’s important to do something productive, even if it’s just taking a walk or relaxing with friends.

At the same time, dissatisfaction is part of what motivates writers, or at least it motivates me as a writer.  I write in part because I am dissatisfied or perplexed or frustrated by aspects of life that aren’t what they ought to be.  Writing is a way of trying to bring down to earth a more ideal vision of how the world could be.  It’s rarely that explicit, but there’s always some glimmer of excitement and joy at the possibility latent in the language.