Since I’m the only one I know that writes, the only clear example of writer’s block I have is that of my sims attempting to learn the writing skill. It makes them tense. Tense must be anxiety.
For a few years now, I’ve had one large block in my head, the writing one. I would try to force myself to start writing again, but I never knew what to write about. Yet, somehow, when I wasn’t in front of a computer, staring at a blank Word page, my mind would be in overdrive. It’s as if I was, mentally, in 7 different universes at once… but if my brain caught on to my plans of literary domination, it would attack my creativity cells.
Knowing what I know now, it was more than likely a symptom of a depression I couldn’t admit to having. However, rather than admit the issue, fix the issue, and move forward… I felt it easier to put my pain on paper.
I’ve always been an emotional writer. One of my first grade classics is about a volcano with anger issues that went around town erupting on people… This was clearly about my father. As long as I could feel, and I remained grounded, I could express any emotion. Somewhere along the way something happened and for the longest period of time I couldn’t see it, because other areas were blocked.
I began to write whatever I was feeling, because that’s all I could write. The happy and adventurous things I wanted to write would never come forward. It was an entire emo mess. I’d type vigorously for about thirty minutes, before I read over my work. I freaking hated it.
Love don’t love
I don’t love love
Darkness take over me
I crumble away
I hear ye, oh Asmodeus!!!
Yea… stuff like that. I could never keep any of it, because the negativity was immense. I didn’t want to commit to my bad side. Day after day, and month after month I’d struggle to write something worthy of what I thought my skill set was, but I’d began to doubt that as well. I don’t regular doubt… I’m like an Olympic gold medal racer doubter. One of my thought bubbles has ten thought bubbles on it’s own. Eventually, the only thing I could think of were tragic stories. I’m not a tragedy girl! Eventually, I just gave it up.
Eons passed…. equivalent to an Earth decade in my book. I had this strange desire to write something. I didn’t trust it! I didn’t understand it either. Somehow this was the key to my understanding of me. How does a person give up something they love, for so long, only to come back later? I remember the last time I wrote something, I was basically brokenhearted at the time. Invincible old me didn’t handle the emotions appropriately and spiraled into years of self doubt, emotional repression, and hatred towards myself. It’s as if I manifested everyone else’s demons.
Now, see there were a lot of lessons to this, but that’s a different post for a different day. We have time!
If I’m being honest, it actually took someone trying to break my heart (yes, there are people like that apparently) for me to snap out of it. Now, outside of that fact that I clearly have given too many men, too much control over my heart, it felt like I was releasing something. However, just because I release it doesn’t mean I started writing right away!
I set a start date…
I planned what to write…
Then overthought myself out of it…
Okay, new start date… new plan… same results
What’s the problem brain?!
So, apparently there’s this thing called healing, and even if you aren’t crushed about something the trauma is still there.
Quote my emo love poem here for reference. I was actually onto something, I should have kept and edited that piece.
Now, here I am… in the year 2020 of our (or whoever you believe in) Dear Lord and Saviour… writing… without a freaking plan. I am solely reliant on my many thought bubbles, which is irritating because I hate to waste a good plan.