New Year, Same Overthinking

A few days ago, I checked my bank account to see that WordPress had taken out its yearly dues. And at first I had considered asking for a refund and going back to a basic account, but I remembered my plans for this blog. I was going to keep up with it and make money with it and showcase my art writing on it. And some delusional part of my brain keeps thinking I can do it. So here I am, once again writing something out of obligation and not because I want to.

Earlier last year I unpublished most of the entries I had posted here because I felt like I was too vulnerable with a handful of strangers I will probably never meet. But all I want to do right now is bitch about myself and my life, knowing that no one of importance to my life will ever see it. I used to fear my friends and family finding my old Reddit accounts where I bitched about everything, including my mental health. But recently I realized that none of them care. Nobody’s looking me up on Google or reading my stories. My art gets a quick glance and an “oh, neat!” if or when I draw. And the chances of me ever getting famous or at least known are slim to none, so I might as well just put my feelings out there, at least this one time, before bottling them up and sealing them away.

I used to be the queen of overthinking. I actually believe overthinking was part of how I managed to be so creative when I was younger. But it was a double-edged sword. Overthinking a story meant more details and a clearer plot. Overthinking my life meant ruining relationships, spikes in anxiety, lost opportunities, etc.

Eventually, I managed to push it all aside. Instead of overthinking, I learned to disassociate. In a way, this did me some good. It also causes me a lot of harm. My creativity took a nosedive. I started to second-guess things, from my ability to draw to everyday things like cleaning and caring for myself. I often find myself stuck in this state of paralysis where I can’t do anything except sit and stare at the clock in between doing the bare minimum to keep my child, my animals, and myself alive.

You need to draw, I hear myself say. But I can’t. I’m afraid I’ll fuck it up.

Then you need to write. Nobody’s going to read it. How many times have I asked friends and family to read just one chapter, and they couldn’t be bothered?

Well then, get up and clean. I can’t move, and I don’t know why.

Go outside. I don’t want people to see me.

Talk to someone. I’m a burden, and nobody really likes me. I can see it in their eyes any time I open my mouth.

Oh. I guess that is overthinking, isn’t it? It never really went away, did it? I just found a way to quiet it down. I know it doesn’t sound like it, but my brain is much quieter than it used to be, and I’m afraid that very soon, I’ll never be able to create something ever again.

I’m afraid. I’m afraid that nobody actually loves me, that my daughter will grow up to hate me, that I’ll end up alone, that I’m a bad mother, a bad wife, a bad person, that my friends all talk about me behind my back, that I’m becoming just as miserable, spiteful, and clueless as my parents, and that I’m the butt of everyone’s jokes because of it.

If you got this far, I’m so sorry you had to read all that. There is no point to this blog entry except to vent. I don’t think I’ll do this again, at least not under my real name. My next post will be about something I make or do or see.