It was inevitable, really, that eventually I would find a reason to hate this blog. People like me have a hard time keeping our self-loathing from spreading to everything we do. Before long we find that, just as we hate ourselves, so too do we hate any reflection of ourselves. Anything that has been molded into existence by these diseased hands so too bears the scars and imperfections of its maker, and can only be seen with contempt and disgust in the rear-view mirror of retrospect. You look at the words you wrote and you hate yourself, wonder how you ever thought this would work. You see self-pity, you see unoriginality, you see melodramatic bullshit and you see cries for attention and cries for help and soon you can’t tell the difference, and you wonder if anyone ever could.
You see yourself.
More than anything I hate my seemingly insatiable need to impress people. It drove me away from my friends, and it drove me away from my blog, too. I had never really written for other people before, and starting the blog was like opening up a fresh new hole that desperately needed to be filled by the empty compliments and assurances of strangers. Knowing I care so much about what other people think about me, about my work, makes me feel pathetic. I’d lost sight of the difference between writing for myself and writing for others.
On top of my unwillingness to come back to the drawing board was my incapability to do so. It’s no big secret that writer’s block is all in your head, but that doesn’t come as much of a consolation to someone who knows firsthand just how much trouble can come from something that’s “all in your head”. It’s supposed to make you feel more in control of the situation, I suppose; that if it’s all in your head, then it’s not some kind of physical obstacle that requires anything more than your own willpower to solve. But I don’t have control over the things in my head.
It always comes back to the thoughts. Once you’ve had a thought it’s there to stay. There’s no filter for you to decide what stays and what goes, like there is with speech. You don’t get to decide what you say to yourself in that dark, dismal place of malevolent whispers. And if I can’t trust myself, then how am I supposed to solve the problems in my own head?
I can’t even think of a more cruel psychological punishment for someone who already struggles with low self-esteem issues than to take the one thing they’re actually good at (or at the very least think they’re good at) and then make it damn near impossible for them to do it. Writer’s block makes me feel more like a failure than usual, and that’s saying a lot. When I sit in front of that blank white page and my fingers hover hesitantly over the keyboard for what feels like an eternity, the thoughts remind me that if I don’t make it at writing then I’ll never make it at anything. If I can’t even do the one thing that I’m good at, the one thing I actually enjoy doing, then what’s the point? Whenever it gets really bad, I find that the only way to retain my sanity is to just step back from it all, to just take a breather and forget about writing as best I can.
I thought about shutting the blog down and just letting go. I thought about it a lot. Just one more amputation in a long line of amputations, one step closer to that final sever from life itself. But I don’t want to give this up. Because I enjoy writing, even more than I hate what I write, even more than I hate writer’s block, and even more than I hate what writer’s block does to me.
So I’m back. Hopefully this time I’ll last a little longer. Who knows? Maybe it’ll even be for good, but I doubt it. Nothing much in this world is for good. But we try anyways. God help us, we try.
Good luck out there, you poor bastards.