Using Writing as Therapy

Okay, so here’s the issue I’m currently having. I don’t want to write. Which is absurd, because I love writing, and it’s always been a thing I’ve done to have fun and escape. I’m good at it (normally) so I don’t understand what the problem is. I’ve had many stories in my head for a long time now, with unique characters who I’ve been very curious to develop, and I’ve always been excited for NaNoWriMo (even the camping ones).

But right now I’m stuck. Horribly stuck. Not even just with this document I’m currently on. I can’t make myself write. I can’t make myself think about stories of my own. I was having an amazing day today, where I chose positivity. I was cheerful going into work, I was thinking about the future, I was fantasizing about my life (which I haven’t done in forever), and I told myself how good today would be. A new hair and nails place opened up next to my work, so I went in for a trim, came home, finished a good book, and am currently participating in a group Virtual Write In with my close friends on Facebook.

And my chest feels tight. Not like someone’s sitting on it, but like there’s a blob of something thick, something solid that got stuck near my heart. It doesn’t move. I can still breathe around it, and that’s a plus, but I can’t break it up. The more I try to think about what I want to write, the more I try to come up with thoughts that aren’t my own but a character’s thoughts but are actually technically my own since the character is fictional and can’t have their own thoughts without me pretending to be them and coming up with the thoughts for them—deep inhale. The more I try to do that which I’ve always done and loved and been good at, the bigger that thing grows, and suddenly I’m starting to convince myself that I’m not a writer at all. I’m a phony. Real writers don’t go through this, right? They plunge ahead, eagerly anticipating their next chapter, and if writer’s block hits them, they go for a run or drink something hot, maybe do a few writing warm ups and prompts, and then they find the courage to go on. (I’m sure they wished it was that easy.)

I want to write. I do! I’ve always wanted to write.

So why am I struggling? Why do all my ideas feel shallow, dumb, impossible? Why am I bored with my characters before I even start to work with them?

Why do I want to log off the computer and just find a book that’s already been written to read so I don’t have to think about my dreams dying from an illness I haven’t diagnosed? I call it an illness because sometimes I really do feel sick.

There has got to be something wrong with me. I want to write. I just don’t want to write.

That doesn’t make sense!

I’ve tried to approach the subject with my friends, and they give me good advice. Truly, they do, but it doesn’t work like that. When something in my mind has already decided I’m going to fail, telling it that it’s lying doesn’t shut it up. So my body responds by crashing.

Come on, girl! You got this! You’re a writer. You’ve self-published a novel that, while not read by a lot of people, was still well-received by the ones who did read it! You’ve got worlds living in you, lives that will never actually be alive until you put them on paper!

There had to have been a time I’ve felt this horrible with writing. I hope there has been, because if so, I’ve obviously worked through it before. I’ve gotten better before.

This just feels different. I’m scared.

One good sign is I’m still writing, just not novels. Look at this bad boy I’ve managed to conjure up! The words are there. I can type up a blog post, or mini scenes of fanfic with a friend, but when it comes to sitting down before the blank document that is meant to be my novel (or in the case of the document I’m currently typing in, it’s 15 pages worth of a story that might not see the light of day for a long time), I freeze. My mind goes blank. Here comes the static.

Oh, if only there was static. Static’s too loud. It would give me something to think about other than the chasm that rips open in my brain when I’m about to be a novelist.

See, I smile inside when I say to myself, “You’re a novelist.” That sounds fancy. Important. And I want that title. I want someone to say, “What do you do for a living?” and I answer, “Oh, I’m a novelist. I have this many novels.”

Realistically, I’ll probably have a day job, too. Writers don’t always make enough to support themselves on their craft alone, and I doubt many self-published ones do.

Then I realize I shouldn’t have self-published because it’s too stressful, and how are you supposed to get people to read your novel when they cringe at the words “self-published” because surely that means your work wasn’t good enough for an actual publisher to look at! (That’s not true, FYI. I’m sure there are many brilliant books that were self-published. Wouldn’t dare to call mine brilliant, but I didn’t even bother trying to find an editor. Maybe I got caught up in the excitement of having a book out so quickly.)

After that, I chastise myself. Why regret my decision? Take pride in it! You worked your butt off to get that book completed. You painted your own cover! The people who have read it did so because you told them about it yourself. You put yourself out there!

I try to be encouraging. And I’ll feel a little better about my decision, and I’ll decide that I’m glad I self-published so I could truly own my book.

Which is likely, if I keep this garbage up, to be the only book I ever publish.

           

 Cue the cycle to start over.

            I want to write.

            I can’t write.

            I suck at writing.

            No one reads the book I have out.

            Why did I self-publish again?

            Because I suck at writing.

            I can’t write.

            I don’t want to write.

            Yes I do.

Whew, I exhaust myself. I worry that I bother my friends, typing out the same woes over and over, and they’re good about talking to me, but in the end they have nothing to fix my problem. The solution lies within myself and my determination.

Determined isn’t exactly a word I’d use to describe myself. Negative. That would be more like it. Likes things easy. It’s hard to fail at something that’s easy.

A coward.

Ah, so we’ve found an underlying problem, the one that probably causes most my issues, from anxiety and depression to my inability to take charge of my life to my writing failures. I’m afraid.

I’m always afraid. I’m afraid I can’t. I tell myself that over and over again. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. And my body believes me. My soul believes me.

I can’t write. I can’t dream. I can’t go back to school. I can’t find a job I’d actually like going to. I can’t fall in love. I can’t drive outside my rectangle (I hate driving, it gives me anxiety). I can’t schedule my own doctor’s appointment to finally ask about whether or not I’d be benefited from medication for mental illness. I can’t be positive. I can’t be happy. I can’t.

When did this change? I’ve been mentally ill for at least eight years, some bouts serious and others just as subtle as a bug bite I’m trying to ignore (don’t touch it; it will only itch worse). But when did it start affecting my life this much?

I can’t want things. I don’t want things.

Since when? Who doesn’t want anything?

I want to be happy. I want to be positive. I want to be able to do things like schedule doctor’s appointments and going on dates and meeting people and driving around wherever I want to go. I want to find a career I’d be happy with, and to have an education. I want to fall in love and share my life with someone. I want to want. In the end, that is the thing I want most. I want to want, to feel that desire that is so strong I can say, “Screw you, fear! You don’t control me.”

But it does control me. It controls me with the word “can’t.”

So I say I can’t write, and it’s probably a fear of something. I can’t tell if I’m afraid to suck at writing, or if I’m afraid of something else in life and it’s sending me into a depressive state, making it hard to write and find pleasure in the things that have made me happy.

Everything in my life is connected. One thing affects the other. It makes it hard to pinpoint individual problems.

Who knew I’d start talking about severe writer’s block and end up pouring all these words out on my mental state? I didn’t.

But hey, it helped me win a word war (friends and I wrote for fifteen minutes quickly, trying to get as many words as possible). And the blob in my chest isn’t there anymore.