I've always said that I can't write when I'm happy. Anytime life has been smooth sailing, both my creativity and productivity have suffered. Words flow out of me when I'm stressed or depressed or angry.
Well, they did.
Turns out there's a point down the line in the other direction where the walls go up and block the outlet I desperately need. I sit and stare at a blank screen and actually feel my anxiety and desperation increase instead of abate.
I've never felt my writing is anything particularly special, but I have managed to produce a few pieces of which I'm proud. And if nothing else, it's been a cheap and effective form of therapy. The ability to create, to pour out myself onto a page, has been one of my most precious gifts. And now I feel it has been ripped away along with so many other parts of me.
I feel.
I think.
I hurt.
I want to bleed out this bitterness and clear my mind.
But I can't. Or I guess I don't. Sometimes it feels like the same thing.
I struggle too much in my own life to create one on paper for someone who doesn't exist.
Choosing the right words and tone is part of my survival kit and I can't waste my resources on a poem or a song.
I don't have the energy to create.
And I don't have the courage to be raw.
It's like a whole other misery to overcome, another loss to mourn.
But as usual, I won't go down without a fight.
I will write. It may not be anything I am proud enough to share, but it will be mine. I am not going to let the darkness take any more light from my life.
I'm not waiting for anything to improve. Expect the worst and hope for the best and keep on writing. Maybe I'll put that on a tshirt.
