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Thursday, June 14, 2018

Writing the Hand That Feeds Me



I'm unfortunately at a point where my writing feels fake. The well of creativity ran dry a long time ago. If I try to get a flow going, even smell, I only end up disappointing myself. I feel like a failure because I can't do this thing I've always done. I don't know if that has anything to do with drinking, the meds, or the instilled concept of mindfulness that suggests I should be doing something "useful" with myself. The more I try to think about living a different way and being a different person, the more I feel like I'm being pushed into a corner. My back is against two walls, not just one. There's no escape from either side. I have to push through the obstacle in front of me or I can't move forward. When we aren't moving forward, we're just being stagnant.

And I'm not out of ideas. That's not the well I refer to. I'm out of ambition, of drive. The ideas still work in my head at all hours of the day. Some glittering as they move past, trying to capture my attention. But I don't have what it takes to reach up...

It's nothing new. I've felt this way a million times before and I know I'll feel this way again. But I'm scared that this could be the last time. The last time I hit my head against the wall, trying to find the sentence that finishes the chapter. The last time I hit the keys so hard my hand won't move for three days. The last time I dance with the words on the edge of a crumbling cliff. I've got my retirement speech already, on the brighter side. I don't have to prepare. The funeral procession may already be in session and I've just been in denial about it. Am I losing my mind? Am I blind?

The concept of kissing this goodbye makes my stomach churn. The worst separation anxiety that could even be imagined. I'm spinning, again. I'm out of control and I've got my foot pressing the gas pedal to the floor on my self-destruction. I'm not in a race with anyone but my own reflection. I saw a car in the side mirror and revved up. I didn't even think. Thought gives me too many chances to doubt.

That's why I need the meds, I think. I'm not getting in touch with myself because she blocked me over a misunderstanding. I don't want to miss her, don't want this attachment feeling. It's easier not to feel a thing than to pretend I don't have such strong feelings. Part of me hates her for how easily she could throw me aside. How easily she could move on. I know I deserved it, though. I always taunted that she didn't have the guts to leave. Little did I know, right? I could fill endless pages with that concept. Hindsight is such a gift, in hindsight. I only wish there was a way to see into the future so I'd know how this all plays out. Will she forgive me? Will we reconcile? Will I take to a keyboard to write and all the moments we shared and the plans for a golden future?

I wish this maintained the metaphor it started as. But it didn't. It became something else half way through. The confusion, the stress. The misery and self-loathing over a decision that was made so long ago I don't even know why I'd still be thinking of it. Ah, that's one of the reasons I avoid writing, whether truth or fiction. I don't know what demons will crawl out of my mind. It's never worth the risk. I know, one day they'll eat their way our anyway. But, I'll fight until I can't fight anymore to keep them under wraps. I have to. It's me or them. We can't coexist.