Thinking out loud and I’m not sure I’m okay.
And I’m not saying this from a dark perspective, or out of suicidal thoughts or anything; I’m just saying out of observation. My attitude, my acts, and my behavior, it doesn’t seem right.
I have ten unfinished posts in my draft box, which obviously stresses me the hell out, which leads to me not writing. I haven’t been writing. I even have great new songs that have been on repeat, which usually is my major motivator for writing, as I love writing while listening to good songs. But even that did not encourage me to write.
Except for last week’s rage post, I didn’t write for a month, and I’m disappointed in myself for that. The reason why I focus so much on writing is that writing is my absolute favorite thing in the world; it is my major source of happiness, and when I stop writing, it means I am depriving myself of happiness, which is why I know there is something not okay.
I’ve been writing since before I know how to write. I was five, and I would draw on paper a story and then give it to my mum, and I would tell her what to write as a story for each drawing. I’ve written so many short stories, poems, one long finished story, and long unfinished stories, and there is nothing that I love more than seeing how a word I am typing is appearing on screen or paper.
I know I am not the very best writer of all (I am not reading enough to strengthen myself 🙁 ) or have the best grammar, but I know I am good. I’ve had teachers who told me I made them cry, and others who say that they save my writing assignments because they are too good not to be saved. I had friends and even online people tell me I am more than good, so I kind of have an ego for writing.
For so long, writing was the only thing I was good at. I am science illiterate, and I cannot for the life of me study or focus on anything academic. I absolutely had no idea what to do in university because of that, so I grew up thinking that I am a complete failure, but I at least knew I can write well.
I dream of dedicating all my time to learning how to write professionally. Like an actual 5 years of university learning creative writing, reading literature and poems, and just living my life in Europe writing as I watch gondolas sailing in the Grand Canal and as I endeavor in my sweet coffee and healthy breakfast. I lust for this.
And when I don’t write, I hate it. And the more I don’t read, the more I feel like I can’t write because reading is the fuel of anyone who writes, and when I don’t read, it means I am stuck with my inane words and weak structure.
But it’s not just writing; it’s everything, really. I don’t read anymore, and I am binge-watching series (have you watched New Girl? It’s nice). I prefer staying home to going out (I haven’t felt this way in a year), and I’m not playing chess with dad anymore or reading with my family. I’m procrastinating more than usual, and I’m slowly distancing myself from my surroundings, and I’m having increased anger tantrums, and I skipped therapy for more than two months.
I went back to therapy last week, but I requested my sessions to be bi-weekly rather than every Monday night. I don’t know why; it just felt right.
It’s raining, and it’s dark and cold and beautiful, but I know I’m not okay. I don’t really like this path because I feel like I know how it will end, and it is not going to be pretty. I’ll work on myself, I promise, I always do. I’m just writing this as a self-observation from me to me so I know it’s out there and so I pressure myself into not falling into an abyss.
On a brighter note, look at how funny banks can sometimes be:
“Please destroy this slip after you have memorized this code” Jokes on you, bank, I sometimes forget my name.
Hope you’re doing well.