I’m supposed to write every day if I want to be a writer and be successful but like, every time I sit down to write I get tired, I get lethargic, I get depressed. Like flipping a switch on my eyelids and thought process that makes it impossible to ever be creative. It really sucks, because how can I ever succeed if I am broken like this? My brain is broken, my creativity is broken, it’s all broken and I’m so screwed and I’m never going to do anything meaningful in this life because I’m always too damn tired for it. Hooray.
I used to be so creative but now I’m not, now all I can do is think about how tired I am, how stressed I am, how much failure I’ve experienced in my life, and how pointless I am. Even when I have ideas I can’t move them from where they start to where they need to be to come out onto the page. It’s like there’s something there blocking me and I don’t know how to get rid of it.
I wish I was a better person than I am. I wish I had more motivation than I do. I wish I had skill or enough willpower to develop it. I wish my life wasn’t so intent on knocking me down because the energy I use getting back up should be going toward things like creating, growing, becoming someone worth being. And I don’t know if I’ll ever be that person because it’s hard enough just getting out of bed most of the time. How am I supposed to be someone worth knowing if I can’t even be someone worth being?
I do prefer the sleep reaction to stress over the anxiety reaction; when my ex dumped me I dealt with massive amounts of anxiety and it was hell for me and my emotions. I’m used to just wanting to sleep, to my eyelids getting heavy and my brain going numb. Not the painful nausea that kept me from eating, the incessant worrying, the inability to stop talking about the things that I was forced to obsess over, or the restless sleep that wasn’t helpful at all. This is better. I’d rather sleep my life away than worry it away. Sometimes I process things in my dreams, too, which helps me when I wake up. I’m not sure if I can control it and I can’t tell when I actually am better off sleeping and when it’s just plain running away.
I’ve been thinking lately I’m probably gonna be single the rest of my life. Probably not gonna find someone who wants to put up with me, who thinks I’m great enough to be worth any sort of effort. I thought maybe Alex would be someone who could appreciate me but apparently not, apparently I’m not as great as he thought. It’s been very discouraging to watch someone lose interest and start distancing himself the more he gets to know me. Like I’m a crappy person. I don’t know why people think that or treat me like that, because I try really hard and I thought intentions mattered. You’re more likely to end up happier with someone who is constantly trying to improve, right? But people want results now apparently and since I don’t know when I’ll be able to offer them, nobody is interested in waiting around. It kind of stinks to know I make people laugh and smile and that I’m fun to talk to, but I’m not worth actually putting any sort of effort into. It’s like I’m just the TV. You wouldn’t date your TV. You keep it around because it entertains you but you don’t take it to bed with you at night, you don’t open up to it, and if it’s not working great you just get a new one. I hope someday I’m not an appliance, a piece of furniture, an electrical device, someday. Maybe someone will see me as a person and someone to love, someday. But I’m not really counting on it anymore. I’ll have to fight to be recognized that way and I really just don’t have the energy to try and prove I’m more than just a piece of entertainment. So, no partners. Too much effort for such an unreliable outcome. Well, honestly, it’s fairly reliable I’ll end up being rejected, since that’s the history so far. So, too much effort for a very unlikely outcome. I’m usually just wasting my time. Trying to convince people I’m worth theirs.
I don’t know if I have anything else to say. I guess this is writing. The only things I can write about anymore. Maybe the only things I’ll ever be able to write about again. I think I may be broken for the rest of my life, and I think none of my dreams are going to come true. I may have to find new dreams.