I’m worried. I finally finished a draft of my novel, and the epilogue is a mere 300 words. I kept thinking I should add to it, but I didn’t know what I should add to it. I still don’t.
I was going to wait a couple of weeks before I started my first read-through, but I’ve jumped into it already. As it turns out, I don’t remember many of the beginning’s details, so I’ll need to fix the consistency.
Then I got triggered this morning. How is immaterial. The catalyst was minor, not something I can really explain. It affected me so much because I’ve already not been doing my best.
I feel like, for the past two years, I’ve been stuck with nowhere to move. I feel like I’ll always be here.
It occurred to me, with a violent wrench, that my dreams of being an author are childish. Idiotic. This stupid passion I thought had sustained me is nothing but an elaborate fantasy. I’m a failure, and my so-called “creative writing” is an attempt to hide my failure from myself, to tell myself, well, it’s not really failure because I get to do this now.
What makes me think I even have the right to be a writer? Look at all the novelists out there. There are a lot of terrible ones, sure, but there are also a lot of good ones. What makes me think I can fit in amongst them? I can’t. That glory is not for me. It’ll never be for me.
My “love of writing” is just stupid juvenile fancy, something to distract me from the real world.
I have no right, and my dreams are stupid, and I’ll feel even stupider when I strive and strive only to never have my ambitions fulfilled.
I felt a momentary urge to burn my hard copy, the one on which I’ve been correcting typos and writing sporadic marginalia.
(N.B.: The following applies to “real life.”)
I’ll never be able to form a connection with anyone, either, not ever. I can’t help but distance myself. Besides, that ship has sailed. Once you reach a certain age, you’re expected to already have those connections, not begin to form them. Those units are already formed. There’s nothing left to join, and people care only about those in their units. Everyone else doesn’t matter.
The world is a hard, cruel place. People care only about self-promotion. Life is all business, about knowing the right people so you can advance yourself. People are valuable only insofar as they are “useful.” You can’t let your guard down, not ever, because it’ll be used against you one day. (No, this didn’t just happen to me–that wasn’t the trigger.) People treat life like business, only caring about “getting ahead,” disregarding the inner core of those they deal with.
Quiet desperation. That’s what I feel. Measured, muted torment, not the frantic kind.
I want to hurt myself just so I can prove to myself I’m not okay. Because this controlled demeanor, it must mean I’m okay, right?
But that would be calculated self-harm, not real self-harm. A way of doing what I do best–putting on a performance.
I was going to write about Blog for Mental Health 2013 today, but this–this I had to get out.