All I want to do is write.
Writing is my outlet, my medicine, my coping mechanism.
Writing is how I make sense of my own head, understand what’s wrong and what I can change.
But I can’t write at the moment.
I’m too scared to.
I’m scared that my words can hurt somebody. I’m scared of backlash, of messages and emails and insults and personal attacks. I’m scared of the strangers without faces who want their hatred to be heard, loud and clear. I’m scared and I hate it.
But the fear has gone so much deeper than hitting publish and sharing myself publicly, I can’t even get the words down for myself. This isn’t how my brain works and it’s making everything that’s already really fucking grey a whole lot greyer.
Usually when things are shit I find it easier to write than when everything’s wonderful. Happiness has always been the curse of my writing. I have journals filled with hand-written pain from the darkest times of my life, a former blog was only ever updated when I was low, the words usually flow out of me without effort when I’m sad or stressed or broken.
But not this time.
I’ve tried. I’ve tried so hard, typed a thousand first sentences and deleted them again. I’ve stared at blank pages and felt the physical frustration run down my arms. I’ve clenched my fists and slammed my laptop closed and walked away for another three days until the next time I sit down and start the cycle again.
For a long time I felt like writing was going to take me somewhere and was something I could do. People told me they liked reading my words, I felt like they were worth something. I had plans, big plans, exciting plan, real-world plans. And then it all came crashing down and now I don’t know who I am or how to write it anymore. I can’t write it because writing it down has what’s led me to falling so hard.
When you realise your words could have the power to really hurt somebody, even though it couldn’t be further from anything you ever intended, what do you do?
Writing has always been a huge part of my identity. Recently I’ve felt like I’ve lost almost everything that made me me, everything that I did for me, and now I can’t do the one thing I’ve always had that can drag me back to earth.
Words are important and powerful and wonderful. Words can also hurt. They can destroy a person and make them question everything they ever knew about themselves. I always just wanted to write words that made people feel a little bit better and a little bit less alone, instead I’ve just been subjected to words of hatred and nastiness.
This post is around 600 words, and has taken me a week to write. This post is the result of physically forcing myself to get something, anything down.
I’m having a crisis of identity, of self-worth, of my own drive. When you think your life is on one track and it falls off those tracks it’s difficult and confusing and scary. When you’re already in a period of deep depression seeing the premonitions your brain creates come to fruition only sends you deeper.
I’m anticipating the criticism to this post. I will be undoubtedly be told that I’m being an over-dramatic bitch who needs to shut up and take a look at the real problems in the world. I know that to many people this will just seen as an act of emotional masturbation, woe-is-me, pathetic millennial, self-centred behaviour.
Because even when I finally manage to actually write something, it seems I can’t write anything anymore.