I was trying to talk about something else, and then I read this post. Ugh.
There was a point in my life when I confidently called myself a Writer – I even grew to resent others for not being able to infer it about me. It’s the first thing I was certain of about myself, that something special happened between my mind and a page. (To be clear, just because writing is what I do does not necessarily mean it is what I’m good at.)
A couple of years ago, I was working on a poetry collection; when a friend asked if I wanted feedback, I said, “Sure, but I probably won’t take it.”
I meant it. I used to know with absolute certainty whenever I’d finished a poem or an essay (even an email) – I knew it was done and said what it needed to say. It didn’t matter whether it was good or if it just sounded like mediocre drivel; the itch in my brain had been scratched and I was overwhelmed with satisfaction.
That doesn’t happen anymore.
I’ve become suspicious of myself, of my own voice. I question how accurately I’m translating my thoughts, I feel as if I’m incapable of determining how important each one is. I’m terrified of losing a single idea, a single memory, so I obsess over how to most effectively document my day. I find it impossible to orient myself toward truth – I’m not sure it exists.
The past six months have been spent excavating parts of myself that I didn’t know were there. Some days feel like my vision of myself has finally come into focus; some days I wonder if I’ve actually driven myself mad spending so much time in my own head.
At a time when I increasingly feel like I don’t know how to exist in the world, it’s been devastating to not know how to exist on the page.
Everything I write is too cringey or too corporate or sounds manic. Something that feels right one day is trashed immediately the next. I chastise myself for not having anything new to say. I’m simultaneously convinced that no one will ever read my writing and also that too many people will read it and it will somehow ruin my life.
It’s hard to even write for myself. My journal languishes in a drawer; sometimes I feel afraid of it and the work it asks me to do.
Mostly, I’m tired. I miss it.