I’m not even sure how to start this one.
Not just because it’s been… oh, I don’t know, 9 months since I blogged last. My inspiration to share my thoughts and write in this manner just… dried up. I didn’t even feel guilty about not blogging, really. I felt like I should, and I wished I was, but I just…
Didn’t have anything to say. It didn’t even bother me that much — as much as it should. Which is the second reason I’m not sure how to start this post. Somewhere in the last year I forgot to care about my own thoughts.
I’m melodramatic; I spiral into negativity at the drop of a hat; I battle intrusive thoughts. Add in the fact that I’m working to deconstruct any -ist thinking, and it’s frightening how much of my own self I cannot trust. In trying so hard not to blow around in some emotional storm, I think I’ve caused the slow death of any kind of self-belief.
Why would my thoughts matter? Especially in a world of endless noise. Even now, I’m sneering at myself.
Most of what I do is done in rote. I write fantasy characters in screwed up situations, because I always have, and there are faint glimmers of myself in there. I edit, because that’s what I’m supposed to do next, and there’s a kind of dim pleasure in seeing things come together. I go to work, because I’m supposed do, the job isn’t hard, and making money is the only way to do anything in this world.
Recently, I had two poignant conversations that helped bring to light how well I’ve been shoving myself into a smaller and smaller box. It’s not like I’ve ever been a particularly self-confident person, but in my doubt of everything, all I’ve done is make safe decisions that make me hate myself. And I’ve got to do something to change.
I’m restless. I don’t know how to fix it.
I’m sad. I don’t know why.
I’m angry. I’m pretty sure I know that reason, but I don’t know how to release it productively.
I’m tired. I don’t know where to find energy anymore.
I’m twenty-seven-goddamn-years-old and I feel like I’m twelve and a hundred all at once. I’m paralyzed, sticking to the same elements that have made up my life so far, instead of trying to pinpoint the nebulous restlessness I can’t seem to get over. The world is f*cking on fire, and I can barely step outside the door in the morning.
So I’m making a decision. A decision I will have to make over and over and over again if I’m going to change this. I’m going to start small. I’m going start caring about my thoughts again. I’m going to be melodramatic, and vent my feelings. I’m going to be selfish, and give a shit about myself. I’m going to take time, and figure out what is wrong with me, so I can stop spiraling this slow death. I’m spending too much time keeping my pieces together to actually live.
Because at the end of this damn thing called life, I want to look back and be satisfied.
I want to know I made something better, and I didn’t just waste oxygen.
I want to build or leave or heal something wonderful, something that will help bring healing or joy or happiness to those who come after me.
Melodramatic? Sure. But maybe if I accept it, I can do something with it.
For anyone reading this and wondering what the hell to expect in this blog… well, 2020 is going to be the year I rage until I figure out how to finally take a step forward — in my dreams, my health, and my sanity. It will have to be a decision I make over and over again. And maybe you can find some comfort or truth in my stumbling attempts to figure out this bullshit.