Where did my love for writing go?

So here I am.<br><br>I've been a writer for most of my life, since I was tiny, scribbling down nonsense that I was sure was Harry Potter fan fiction for my family to read. I wrote my first novel when I was fourteen and by fourteen alone I'd written three more. I wrote every day, for hours and hours at a time. I used to sit on long car drives and write for whole hours by hand, for whole hours on a time, legs curled up and head buried in the back of the driving seat. <br><br>I used to write because it was the only thing that made sense. I am a speechless and wordless person. I couldn't talk to anyone but my best friend for most of my life. I couldn't express myself, I couldn't get anything out. I used to get myself so wound up that I would be unable to sleep for hours, unable to settle, it was like my whole brain was running at a hundred miles an hour, with no brakes to be found.<br><br>For me, writing was the brakes. It was the weight that pushed me down into the bed, the nail that pinned me to the floor. It was my whole whole for fourteen years of my life. <br><br>I wrote my first book as an adult last year. It was like nothing I'd ever written, it was whole and full and it took all of me. I wrote for every hour of the day, I didn't sleep as much, I barely ate. It was dangerous, yet it was wonderful. It took me to worlds I'd never dreamed of, put me places I'd never been and made me feel like I was home. It was like nothing I'd ever felt before. <br><br>But I didn't get it published. I didn't try. I wrote another book. I used to write for myself, but this one was different. This was like the fourteen year old me; I wrote and wrote and wrote as much as I could but I see that it's not good. It's been fourteen years since that first book, I know I should be better by now. I've spent my whole life writing, I should be an author. I should be a published writer. <br><br>But it's not good. <br><br>I've been struggling with my mental health a lot over the past couple of months. I'm burnt out, I'm exhausted, my whole life is falling apart. It's dangerous, yet it's wonderful. I've been writing a little lately, but it's not like I used to. I sit and I stare for hours at a time, with nothing to say and nothing to write. I sit at my desk, with legs curled up and head buried in the desk, and think of nothing. For hours.<br><br>I don't know what to write.<br><br>For fourteen years of my life I wrote whole books every few months, I wrote every day and for hours at a time. I was a writer, I was a young girl with whole worlds and characters full inside of me. <br><br>Now I'm nothing.<br><br>So here I am. I see that my writing skills have been destroyed by this past year, I've gone from an English Lit graduate to a child who can't spell. I see that my mind is empty, I have nothing to write. I see that my life is falling apart, and I sit and I think of nothing for hours at a time. <br><br>I don't know what to write. I don't know how to write. I don't know who I am. I don't know what to do.<br><br>So here I am. <br><br>**TLDR:** Where did my love for writing go?