Tag: Writing

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Earlier last year I unpublished most of the entries I had posted here because I felt like I was too vulnerable with a handful of strangers I will probably never meet.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.

Friday Morning Word Vomit

It’s funny how, by the time the air starts to chill and the leaves start to fall, I completely forget how badly autumn and winter terrorize my struggling immune system. I always seem to forget the perpetual cold or flu that keeps me down about 80% of the season, remembering instead only the happy parts of the colder months. The hot drinks and warm sweaters, cuddling my husband in front of a fire, holidays, festivals, and markets. Then the first cold hits, and I have to break out my nebulizer because Covid ravaged my once healing lungs and I won’t survive the winter without my albuterol.

I think I’ll be lucky if I see 65 the way things are going.

I got a new job. Part-time. I don’t like it. Yes, it’s true, I don’t like to work. Or, at least, I don’t like to work the jobs society deems appropriate for someone like me. Lately I’ve been focusing more on my writing, and that’s how I want to make my living. I have this fantasy where my husband’s band gets signed, gets big, and I can spend my days raising my child and doing creative things in relative comfort.

It feels wrong to dream about it, mainly because I know that it’s not realistic or statistically likely to happen. Out of the millions of creatives around the world, what gives me the right to think I can make it? Sure, I could have a solid 15 minutes, after which I’d fade back into obscurity, back to retail, back to being chronically sick every winter because my body can’t handle constant human interaction like a normal body can.

I think what bothers me the most about that fantasy is that it feels like it has too much in common with the American individualist fantasy that paints the common blue-collar worker as a temporarily inconvenienced billionaire. If he just works harder, he can join that big club. He’s really one of them, you know. That’s why he doesn’t care about the homeless or the immigrant or the starving child. Their existence only drags him down.

I don’t have that mindset, but having my own fantasy about pulling my family out of poverty almost feels like a betrayal to others like me. Any time I find myself scheming up ways to get my daughter into the best school in the state because I want her to be safe and well educated, I recoil, disgusted with myself for even considering mingling with that lifestyle.

Lately, I’ve been feeling more confident. I’ve gotten it in my mind that maybe I can get all my stories done and published. I could make connections. I’ve found it mind-bogglingly easy to talk to certain people, something I’ve never been able to do before. I prefer friendships over career connections, but I know that’s how the world works, as much as I hate it.

Sometimes I think I’m dying, and I’m terrified I’ll die before I get any of my stories finished. I think about sitting down one day and writing out detailed plots and character sheets, just in case I croak. My family can pull a V.C. Andrews and live comfortably on whatever a ghostwriter pumps out. I’ve been posting finished (albeit rough and unedited) chapters of various stories on my VampFreaks (not, not VampireFreaks) blog before I post/publish them elsewhere. Just in case.

Anyway, I have to get ready for work. Another thing I forget I hate about this season is the emphasis on capitalism. The busier the closer the holidays get, the ruder the customers get. And when you work a retail job that involves big spenders, you’re further reminded why you hate the wealthy.

Eat the rich, y’all.

I put this in my drafts and forgot to publish it. It’s now Monday morning. 🤘🏻🤦🏻‍♀️