I write. That’s (obviously) how I get my stuff out, right? Does that make me a writer or someone who writes? When I was on my trip, I decided that I wanted to be a writer. That it was part of what I wanted to do with my life. It was an empowering feeling to finally say it, and to mean it. As I slip back into reality, (seriously it all feels like some wonderful dream within a dream. Did I get all Inception on my own self?) I can feel the urge or dream (or whatever you want to call it) slip away a bit. I can feel it start to turn around, like it’s getting ready to yell at me that it’s a stupid dream and I have snowballs chance in hell of it happening. I know it’s possible, but when you’ve got a war going on up there, it makes it hard sometimes to decipher between those lies and the truth. Truth is, it would be difficult, and I’d have to deal with a good amount of rejection.
The lies are the same as always,
the not good enough
why the hell do you bother? – no one reads it anyways.
you can’t even write for yourself – isn’t that the whole point?
and the ever snobby, you have a horrible grasp on grammar, you don’t edit your writing, and you have to spellcheck in your dictionary. You can’t remember how to spell words. Where do you get off thinking you could be a writer?
Those blend in with the depression down talk. No one will EVER love you. You are NOT good enough. You hate yourself most of the time, why shouldn’t other people do the same? Sure you’re polite most of the time, but you’re so detached from people. They don’t care. NO ONE CARES.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m damned to having that on replay forever. The horrid thoughts and lies I feed myself. I feed myself almost literal garbage, not because I know it’s truth, but because it’s SAFE. That little bit of the universe I have for myself is filled with garbage and depression. Sometimes it’s so dark, I can’t even see my hand in front of my face. And in the midst of all of that, I wonder why I chose the title ‘Writer’ I’m hardly able to be honest with myself sometimes. How can I expect anyone to read my ramblings? Half the time I just zone out when I write and whatever comes out is what goes up. I don’t like re-reading my own writing. I don’t know if it’s being lazy (probably) or if it’s some demented protection thing I have built up over the years, where if I get it out and acknowledge it, but don’t re-read it, then maybe I get it out and don’t have to re-live those long dark nights of the soul.
I’ve been writing since roughly the same time I started therapy. Maybe a little before, and I didn’t start writing anything personal until about 6 months ago.I wrote my poems, that I thought were therapy in a way when I was a teenager, and I wrote my stories, where I’m sure some of my stuff slipped in between the lines. I know those characters have some of my stuff, it’s hard to not let it slip in. Especially when you just day dream and write it down. I was 11 or 12 and wrote, wait for the kicker here, ‘pop songs’. God are they awful. I don’t have it in me to be a songwriter. I need page after page to ramble on, I don’t know if I could condense it down to a catchy hook and 3 minutes. I thought they were good, and obviously that was just the stepping stone to writing dark angry poetry. Even reading some of that now scares me. It literally scares me. Because you almost forget how far in you are, or were, and to see the tangible proof of that moment existing is a reminder that yes, it did happen and yes, you were there. I still have my journal from residential treatment, and I have kept myself from looking at it a lot, because it scares me to know how far I fell and how I still have the capacity to fall in that deep. At one point, during that 8 months, I wanted to be numb, I wanted to be walking skeleton of a person. I thought that would be easier to navigate through life if I didn’t eat, and didn’t feel. I wanted to doom myself to a half life, where ironically I have kind of been anyways since then.
I haven’t been participating in my own life. I checked out the day I got my depression diagnosis. Everything after that feels like trying to piece a drunken night together the next morning. I have snippets of it, and can mostly guess what happened, but the feeling is usually one of embarrassment and of guilt. Because maybe I said something that let people see inside a little too far, and maybe I wrote something that was too personal. The personal stuff scares me, and I think that’s why I’m so keen to try to keep going. The stuff before may have been personal, but if it was, it wasn’t completely honest. I always thought I was omitting parts of the truth, rather than flat out lying. Even then, I didn’t think people would like me if I was honest about what I am. That’s been a hard one to shake.
Even on my retreat, where I knew I was surrounded by women who were nothing but giving and loving, I still had my moments where I knew I shouldn’t talk, and maybe I was a little too quiet. But my hamster wheel starts going, and then I start telling myself that none of them like me, let alone care what I’ve been through. They’re here to connect and be vulnerable and to be open. How can I do that when I can’t be honest with myself? I skew my version of the truth so that I see that I’m not worth someone taking the time to get to know me and to connect, because I don’t feel like I have anything to offer in return. I felt empty down there, and I knew I wasn’t. I knew there was too much in there for me to be feeling like I have nothing to offer. I made myself feel like I don’t belong, and it was an easy road to go down because I know it so well, and given that I was the youngest one there. That didn’t do much to help me fight off my own stupid thoughts. My brain starts going, and sometimes I feel like it will implode in my skull. The overthinking is something I know too well, and there are days where I am able to stop it, like I did down there, and I did realize how melodramatic I was being over something I invented.
Even with the writing I did down there, the second half it was tapping into something I didn’t know I had. I was able to be positive and not feel like a fraud. I could write it down, and actually feel it. I left on such a high, and it has been the best I have ever felt in my life. Because I knew that those things I wanted so badly I could almost taste them, were real, and they were possible. But then I get back into my life and the high wears off. I’m back into my fortress of solitude hating myself routine, but I can feel those embers still burning. I know that I don’t have to fall back into that comfortable darkness. I have to fight it, but I would have to fight to stay in the dark. Somewhere in there, I hope I can get it into my head, that my writing is something I have to do. It keeps me going, even if no one else reads it. I feel better after getting it out onto the page, even if I have to spellcheck my words. I don’t think I chose to write, the writing chose me.