Words. Words on paper. Words on a screen. The only way I know how to truly process my thoughts. Taking them away is self sabotage. I have always thought of myself as a writer/never thought of myself as a writer. The only subject in school I received extra praise for: creative writing. But like everything else, I lost confidence at some point and decided I wasn’t good at anything and refused to share creative parts of myself out of fear of being terrible at everything.
But I’ve never been able to stop writing. I can’t stop writing because it must come out. Sharing it completes the process. Even if only to strangers on the other side of the world. Writing and exposing my words sustains my life.
Most of the time when I reread previous posts, I cringe. Sometimes I take them down. Sometimes I take down the entire blog when embarrassment overwhelms. Am I this cringe-worthy all the time? I’m not writing here for anyone else. Ever. But, the part of me that fears rejection makes a staggering appearance, tells me no one should be reading the depths of my soul, that I am only proving to the 5 people who read this with any regularity that I am unworthy of life, and that I am a terrible writer so this is an utterly pointless craft. Especially to make available for anyone to see.
The state of existential crisis that frequently appears and takes over my world shatters my ability to find acceptance and safety and to be vulnerable. What am I ever doing? And Why? And everyone reading my shitty prose and journal entries must think, “wow, I just wasted so much time I will never get back.”
Fear creeps into every single thing I do. At the center of my recovery and trying to
live a life save my life, is me. I am struggling to get out. I am fearful I don’t even like me, so how could anyone else? I am fearful my writing is the closest snapshot to my authentic self anyone is getting and that is terrifying.