In my last post, I wrote
about why I stopped writing for two months. And even though a full month has
passed since that post, I still haven’t done as much writing as I’d hoped. I’ve
sunken into something I can’t quite name – a mild depression of sorts, most
likely – and find myself scrambling within the confines of whatever I’ve
trapped myself in.
I feel the most like me – all creative sparks, laughter,
passion and voracious for information and inspiration – when I’m at the
newspaper, slaving over layout or layering the pieces of a story while I’m
surrounded by women that I admire and love, who work harder than most that I
know and bring me to my knees every day, doubled over with laughter. I feel alive and full of possibilities and I can’t wait to get home so
that I may pour my soul into the page.
By the time I’ve scraped
the last of my dinner off my plate, that feeling is gone, replaced with an
aching nothing. I am alone here and my words are not enough to keep me company.
I’m already an episode into Roseanne and writing is too much work right now.
Too much pressure to create something real and tangible, something that will
make a difference in someone’s life, or put me in a better place financially. Too
much room for failure, of being unable to live up to my own expectations of
what a story should look like.
Writing won’t do any of
those things for me. But if I watch another episode of Roseanne or Full House
then I can forget about everything, keep my heart silent and still while my
brain sorts through jokes, canned laughter, and dynamic families that don’t
exist.
I’ve used television as
an escape for as long as I can remember. In fairness to me, I am actively passionate about the stories it
weaves, the characters it creates, the worlds it spins. I don’t solely engage
to get away from my problems, but it’s a habit I developed early on and one I
have trouble breaking.
This disconnected feeling
is not a new one for me – it’s something I’ve dealt with on and off since…well,
I don’t know. But as an introvert, I thrive
on time alone. Working in a newsroom is the precise amount of stimulation I
need. And honestly, while I often lament the long, opposing schedules that my
roommate and I work, I’m grateful to have the apartment to myself most nights.
So where is this
discomfort – this hole – originating from?
I know that I am unhappy
working a second job in retail, which makes it harder for me to catch up on
adult things, like dishes, laundry, and cleaning, while still having time to do
the things I want and need to do, like write. I’m terrible in retail – I hate
customer service and I suck at small talk. I’m looking for freelance gigs so
that I can leave, but they’re crazy competitive and hard to come by. So is this
a contributing factor? Probably.
I’m still working through
heartbreak. Is this a contributing factor? Most likely.
But I also just miss my friends. I have a couple here at
home, but all the others are scattered throughout the country. Best friends in
LA, San Francisco, and New York all with their own lives (rightfully so,
obviously). Some of them have found blooming relationships or are debt-free
(another stressor of mine – money) and I struggle to be fully happy for them
when a large part of me is envious of the point they’re at in their lives.
Will I reach that point?
Will I always feel like I’m playing catch-up?
Even now, it’s a somewhat ridiculous notion considering that I live on my own
and work in a field that I love at 24. I’m not financially independent, may not
reach that point for many years, but I hope that it’ll come someday. I’m doing just fine.
When did I become suffocated
by the need to have it all figured out?
My friends are completely
and 100% deserving of happiness and fulfillment and whatever else their
generous hearts desire. So now I’m not just playing catch-up — I’m an asshole
who’s playing catch-up.
This is the third night
in a row that I’ve forced myself to turn off the television and write. I used
to write every day, but that hasn’t been the case for a few months now. I’m
desperate to get back to flexing those muscles daily, but it’s been difficult.
But now I’m finding people to hold me accountable to my writing, so that I
don’t wake up one day and look back on my life, wondering why the hell I never
even completed a manuscript.
I wish that I could
bottle elation and pop the cork off whenever I need a swig or two. If only everything
were that easy.
This has helped me through times like you are experiencing now... I thought it might help you too... http://therumpus.net/2010/08/dear-sugar-the-rumpus-advice-column-48-write-like-a-motherfucker/
ReplyDeleteSo good Olivia. You made my heart hurt with this one. I'm glad to see the things you aren't saying outloud flowing onto the page. And ugh the game of catch up never ends.. we should probably just let it die, but sometimes that feels impossible. I also happened to read this in the middle of one of my own days of feeling achey nothing and knowing i should work on a project, but instead filling my time with busy things because writing just seems too difficult at the moment. We'll wrangle those words to a page yet. loves you friend.
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