It’s like I don’t know how to write anymore. It used to come so naturally. Now, it feels like my brain is an empty toothpaste tube, and my fingers are trying to squeeze out a few more minty words before I have to go buy another tube of brain.
I used to be able to take words and make them do whatever I wanted and people liked it. And I’d tell people “I don’t even care if people like it! I wrote this for myself!” which was — to put it delicately — total bullshit. I loved when people liked my stuff because it was thrilling and made me feel talented and important. But now, I’m too intimidated by every other writer I’m comparing myself to. They’re all too good and too experienced and they have too many ideas and too much more talent than I have or ever have had or ever will have, forever and ever amen.
It’s funny how confidence becomes so fickle in the face of competition. No, wait. Funny is the wrong word. Terrifying? Yeah, it’s terrifying how confidence becomes so fickle in the face of competition.
Ladies and gentlemen, may I introduce to you the anxious mind.
Writing was always a challenge, but it was a challenge I liked taking. I wasn’t nervous about it or skeptical or wishing I was better at something else so I wouldn’t have to spend my time psychoanalyzing myself every time I opened up a blank document and stared at it for minutes at a time before giving up. But, here I am. This is the first time I’ve gotten myself to sit down and actually write something out that isn’t a jumbled, emotional mess in my journal that’s blotted with anxiety-induced tears. And all I can think to write about is how much I can’t write anymore.
And, let me tell you, it’s damn frustrating. Writing is supposed to be my release. It’s supposed to take my mind off everything and focus my brain, if only for a few minutes at a time. It’s supposed to make me feeling like I’m capable of achieving something that I started and I’ll finish because making it is helping me.
Maybe it’s not that I can’t write anymore but that I fell out of love with it for a while. It was more intimidating than relaxing, and I wanted what was easiest, and writing is almost never the easiest thing to do. I wanted to take the strain off of myself and the decisions I have to make, and I figured taking myself away from something that had caused me so much stress and pain in the past would be the best way to cope.
But it’s come to the point where I’m out of ideas. I can’t make myself do anything to pull me out of the grips of that bitch called anxiety, or that dude ADHD that won’t shut up about every shiny thing I pass by, or the stupid, stupid depression that sits around in my head all day, farting and telling me everybody would be better off if I weren’t here. And other than meds, therapy and support, writing is what I remember helping.
And so, here is a blog. Here is a blog that I’ll write and hopefully people will read and think, Huh. I know what she’s talking about. Guess I’m not the only one. That’d be ideal. Or it might just turn into an online diary potential employers can find one day and wonder, Huh. Sounds like she’s a little out there. Let’s hire her because she seems creative and quirky and not at all nutzo. That’d be great, too.