Shame is weird. I tend not to have too much of it but I guess a little while ago it got the better of me.
I just got done making allllll the posts I made private public again, and I’m trying to understand my thought process. I know it was after my diagnosis of rapid cycling bipolar disorder, after I started medication and began to feel better, and I guess I just looked back on the hot mess that is this blog and crumpled.
Maybe that’s what I was doing, screwing up the blog posts and throwing them in the trash, wishing they had never been written let alone seen.
Now I’m planning on writing much more frequently again, because hey, it’s kinda natural to me like I’m sure it is to most of you. I wanted the posts back. I mean, why not? They might be a hot mess but they’re my hot mess and one thing I always liked about myself is that I’m honest to a fault, honest about all my faults.
It was cathartic (I’m sure I butchered that spelling) making those posts public again, and one reason is because doubt had sunk its teeth in.
My post yesterday was talking about struggling to write and I thought to myself while I wrote it, damn I struggle with writing a lot. I’m always struggling with it. I’ll write half a book and then drop it. I’ll just run out of steam after chugging along like a Japanese bullet train. I started to think maybe I’m a fraud? I’m not really a writer, I’m always complaining that I can’t write!
Then I took on the task of bringing back my old posts. 243 of them. That’s a lot of writing. Even if it’s bitching and moaning about writing it’s still writing and it’s not even calculating in all the words I’ve written for the many, many books I’ve started. Hundreds of thousands of them. And not for university or school or whatever, just out of pure love for writing.
I was about to write “I just need to get on with it” but if there’s something that going through those old posts taught me is to just back off a little. Have a bit of forgiveness. You have a serious mental illness and your biggest tool in writing is your brain. If you can’t then you can’t. It doesn’t mean don’t try, but it does mean don’t destroy yourself over it. Yeah, punching bag all those negative thoughts. Nothings going to kill your writing spirit like telling yourself over and over that you can’t write, so instead it’s just difficult sometimes.
I’m also not going to buy into the idea my medications have destroyed my imagination, but you know what? If they have so be it. I’d rather be alive than write another book. But, like I said, I don’t believe that. I think that I just need to get used to this new lifestyle. I mean, I sleep now. At night and everything.
Oh interesting I’m getting YouTube adverts in Spanish. My friends have taught me some interesting words in Spanish but none of them were said in that advert…. eheheheh.
So yeah. IF I end up only speaking about mental health still then whatever. I don’t lead an interesting life okay! I’m very in my own head. Live in the moment? Be present? Pfft! More like set up a cushy little corner in my brain and rip myself a new one!
Ah. Now. See, shame. It’s there. It’s telling me to be quiet. No one needs to read this, to see this deep into the ol’ noggin’. Write about nargles and periwinkles.
Maybe I should just have this song as the intro to all of my blog posts: