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Wednesday, November 14, 2018

Excuses & The Comfort Zone Enemy

This morning I was motivated to write. I've come up with dozens of topics over the last week that I could write about too. But, by the time I sit down in front of my computer, my brain is off. It's like when I CAN write, I have no motivation. When I'm otherwise occupied (most commonly at night, when I'm trying to sleep), I can't. It's all excuses though, and I know it. I make excuses for not writing because I feel like I have to answer to you. When my public blog is neglected, that's fine. When I neglect the private one, I start to go a little crazy. Okay, I'll admit that I go a little really crazy. I just don't want to scratch at a foundation that always feels like it's falling apart. Codename: me.

Writing used to be something different. I could control my own worlds, never answering to anyone. I could choose who I invited into the stories. If I didn't like something, I could change it. But, then I started writing for other people. I put my creative mind into a box and closed the lid. Through a little mail slot, I pushed the topic I was given in. My brain couldn't take the idea and fly. It had to work within parameters. A part of my thought when I quit freelancing, the novelty of writing would come back. But it didn't.

I think about all the "excuses" I've made, the roadblocks is created for myself. I remember last year when I believed my ex had found my blog and blocked me on all social media, so I stopped feeling like I could post whatever I wanted. I remember when I was censored because of my  intense opinions about gun control and president Trump. I remember when every post had a total of 1 views and I felt so discouraged I gave up for a while. I also remember when I felt inspired to join social media and network with people who had similar interests. I remember joining cliques for musicians or movie stars to express how they changed our lives and how we made friendships out of that mentality. I remember when my blog was getting popular because I was posting articles all the time about the things people care about (eg: Articles you might find on any other website about love and ways to de-stress). Oh and let's not forget the dozens of times my "muse" died.

Do you know when I was the happiest with my writing? When no one saw a word I wrote. When it was just me and my computer, I never had to think about the reaction of the reader. I never had to think about how I presented myself to possible clients and customers. I was just me, whether I recognized who that was or I've always been a stranger to myself. I was the happiest when I was alone. Of course I recognize that being alone was my comfort zone. It was safe and secure. Judgment free. Oh and I could change whatever I wanted without worrying about how other people would feel. Like, changing my social media accounts or redesigning the website. I never had to consider being "user friendly", on or offline.

But no one grows inside their comfort zone. No one. You have to be willing to step outside the world you've created for yourself. You have to subject yourself to rejection and disappointment in order to build your character. You have to make friends who stop talking to you. Date people who never call you back. Pitch products that never sell. Make products that you never pitch. You have to be willing to take risks.

I wish I could apply that advice to my own life, but I can't. I find myself wasting more time than I even have. But I know that I'm not ready to just walk away. Trust me, my retirement speech is already ready from the times before this that had my tongue twisted. The truth isn't even that I love what I do. I don't know who I am if I'm not writer. If I ever let go of this one constant I've always had in my life, who am I? How do I face tomorrow as nothing more than a shadow? Maybe fear is the only thing that's kept us together. I know in my heart it's been over for years, but I'm still trying to keep it together. I'm courting insanity, wishing she was you. I'm delusional, but I'm devoted. Feverishly holding onto anything that makes me feel alive. It's so easy to forget sometimes. I was convinced I was a robot that was brought to life. A wish inside a young boys dream or an old man's fantasies. Either way, it doesn't matter to me. I'm not eager on retiring. So if I have to get creative, prepare yourself for the outrageous.