Yesterday I wrote so much that by the end of the night I was so anxious and full of self-doubt it was unbearable. I don't know if my writing triggered this hypomanic episode or if it was triggered before hand and it is what led me to write so much.
And I've written a lot. Over six thousand words in something I'm calling a "novel", but as always that is a word I avoid like the plague, because who the fuck am I to write a novel when I can barely make a coherent blog post.
And I've been making frantic private posts just for myself, much longer than these. And between all three of them I'm not sure what has been said and what hasn't.
Today was easy as far as the paper route goes, but everything else, I just felt this malevolent blob growing in my chest and didn't know what to do with it. I didn't want to write in fear that it might grow, but here I am anyway.
What is there left to cover anyway?
The newspaper route is memorized, I say things like "oh hello molding box", or "come on man, grab your newspapers!" all to myself. I need to start listening to audiobooks or something.
I should probably be exercising but where and how. Its so fucking hot outside and even in this wealthy area I don't feel safe running at night. I don't feel safe running outside at all, where people may see me. I don't want people to watch me. I don't want to be viewed.
So why do I want to be read?
If my fear is that these nameless faceless strangers are judging me and know what I am thinking or know something about me that I don't want them to know. Or see what I am wearing and think that I'm fake, or a phony or trying to be someone I'm not.
Oh god do I hate that, when people insult others with that. "He is trying to be something he isn't" We are all trying to be something, you may not know it, but you have an image of yourself, and you want others to see you the way you want them to and you try to maintain that balance. Everyone does this and you don't get to decide someone is bad at it.
Why not just laugh at those who try something for the first time and fail, and crush their aspirations to ever try that again. We do, and it feels good, and right, and why should they try to better themselves. Alright, everyone knows this.
So why would I want to actually show what I think, in the most intimate way possible. By transcribing my thoughts out for anyone to read and see. And know something about me that I would normally hide.
Attention? The more people that pay attention to this the more scared I am of posting and if it gets bad enough I quit and repress the memories of that blog and its miniscule success.
The last time I shared a story with a group of people they tore me to pieces nicely, with smiles on their faces. Smiles that couldn't mask that embarrassment for me. That they had read this thing I wrote in a frenzy and thought about day and night and thought "this is it, when they read this, everyone will respect me even after a semester of silence from me. This will change everything".
And it did, it changed my love of writing, it changed my ability to go into that class.
Or any class. I tried something and it failed. And if greatness doesn't come naturally what hope is there then? Movies don't highlight the struggle and failures of people. Just the ones who were naturals. Surely I'm a natural at something right? I'd have to be, I just have to explore enough.
That way of thinking is poison to my mind, and I need an antidote. Depression could have been it. But it's back, the poison. I know it's not real but it doesn't know that I know that it isn't real. So it still reeks its havoc.
I would mention something else but it will have to wait for years, for this "novel" that will never come to be. It'll have to wait until I decide to give up on greatness and settle for what I actually have at my dispose. These fingers, this keyboard, and my mind and it's various states of disarray.
Thump, and I bounce back.
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