This is just a warm-up exercise to get me to speedier writing. I didn’t tell anyone about this blog because I don’t want my friends to read it. I don’t want my friends to find it. I don’t care if someone reads it and tells me about it later, or we become friends from them reading it, I just don’t want to go publicizing this to the people I know irl. There’s nothing important on here anyway. I used to make a lot of friends online that way, just from being myself, but now it’s hard to make any friends at all.
You’re not supposed to press the delete key in a warm-up, but who cares what you’re supposed to do? I never have. Maybe that’s why I am where I am today. You hear advice from all sides. How do you know which to follow?
Everyone has their own problems and their own life. My problems and my life are my own. I don’t think anyone in the world can empathize with me. Sometimes people know what you mean when you describe a certain part of something you’ve been going through, but they don’t really know you, and they don’t know what it’s like.
My grandma died. My uncle touched me inappropriately. That boy doesn’t like me.
Sometimes the things that bother us the most are the things that are not supposed to bother us at all.
My favorite character in the series died. They forgot to put onions on my burger. I have a pimple.
I am having a rough time of it now for many reasons, one because my little brother tried to kill himself. That’s supposed to bother me the most. I am supposed to be sympathetic and caring, but I am just mad. He woke the dragon, you might say . . . and I am a dragon.
I had a friend who took pills after college, trying to kill herself. Of course she didn’t manage it because she didn’t swallow enough. That’s always the trouble with girls, isn’t it?
See why I don’t tell people about this blog?
I just want to go on record and tell all you would-be suicide victims not to kill yourselves, and to get over this cry-for-help bullshit. What do the rest of us have to do to make you feel loved enough that you aren’t threatening to take yourself out of our lives forever? Roll out the red carpet and bring you breakfast in bed everyday, I imagine. I’d like it if you did those things for me, too, but that wouldn’t be fair, now would it? Life isn’t fair.
Get over it. Seriously. Do you think I like my life? Do you think I like that my greatest ambition is to write fan-fiction and I can’t even do that properly? I can’t even admit that to people. It’s easier just to say the genre the stories I like are in, and say I want to write that. Because you know, saying you want to write doesn’t give people enough reason to give you flak as it is. What a stupid career choice. Writers aren’t born, they’re made, forged on the page and over time and when someone reads it. And that isn’t even you, that’s just something you wrote, like this, some part of your soul you hoped no one would ever see.
I feel like I can’t even talk about this anymore.
I finally wrote a story and thought, this is going to be the one that I post. This one will be good enough that I won’t be mortified by putting my alias on it. The anonymous people of the internet will not shun me, because I have already shunned myself, and posting this will not bring shame upon me. I just want it to be good, okay. I just want you to read this and know some part of how I felt. I don’t care if you like me, or think my story is stupid, and you would probably think I am a loser if you knew me even if you liked the story. But when I read over the story, I was upset with how clinical it sounded. It was like a description out of a science textbook. Where was the emotion? Where was the way I felt imagining this? Where was the rush and pain and love that made me sit in front of my computer for hours and hours, typing and rewriting and polishing and daydreaming and trying to create, to bring to life some kind of feeling that I only knew from inside myself?
It was gone. Or it was still there, inside of me, but I couldn’t bring it out. That’s what it’s like to write; and because I write, can I call myself a writer? All the emotion you are trying to express sucked out by apathy and isolation, distilled to 26 letters rearranged to make words that are supposed to rearrange themselves back into the emotion you were trying to express. And you know no one will ever know how you feel.
And then you get a call from the hospital.