I feel I’ve got stuck in some almighty, emotionally fuelled dead end. Last week when I was all “Yeah, I’m fucking blogging again!” I really, truly believed it was there but it appears my bravado fizzled out as soon as I stabbed my finger on Publish and sent my post raged by Costa caramel latte out into the ether.
Stuff that’s been going on recently has made me realise I need to pay proper attention to real life rather than uttering a half-arsed “Just a minute…” with my face buried in my phone or laptop when I’m actually more concerned by the fact that my Klout score has gone down by a point or I haven’t replied to an email immediately.
Blogging ain’t as effortless as it may appear. Unfortunately words don’t just simply fall off your fingers and materialise on a screen, perfectly formatted into snappy paragraphs, just bursting with mind-blowing content that will stick to reader’s brains like glue.
Nor do good photos just happen, even sort of alright, passable photos don’t just happen. They rarely, if ever, fall into your lap while you’re sat at your desk, in three day old leggings, furiously just trying to finish this one last post.
And inspiration soon dries up once the caffeine rollercoaster ends, the sugar rush fades and your confidence evaporates along with it. Poof goes the heady, inflated inspiration. In comes the self doubt, the self loathing, the mental self-flagellation. Staring at screens. Typing. Deleting. Typing. Deleting again.
Once you’ve skimmed the surface for subject matter, you soon realise there’s not an awful lot left to choose from underneath. And yeah, you can still write stuff if you force it, but it’s not what you wanna write or what you feel good writing. I could write about taking Noah to the woods at the weekend or the scary psychiatrist at the private hospital – but really, who the fuck cares? If I don’t, how can I expect anyone else to?
While I’m lost in this cul-de-sac, all I’ve got is the same thing following me around. Depression and doubt. I’m completely bored with how I feel so I think it’s fair to say I’ve come up with all the inventive ways there are to say that I feel like shit, that I’m struggling and I’d quite happily not wake up tomorrow. Cos that’s all there is, on constant repeat in my head, again and again like the fucking Tetris theme tune only more soul destroying. Everything I do manage to sort of feel or half-think seems like deja vu.
I’ve been wondering if it’s all worth it for the end result, whether I’m getting what I used to out of it, and the answer is I honestly don’t know. All I do know is that all the medication coursing through my veins has changed something in me, all the drama has changed what’s important and I don’t know when the balance will return.
The thing with having a “break” is, when you think you think you should be all energised and full of stuff to say after a week or two, you kind of realise you enjoy the peace. That no one’s really noticed you’ve gone anyway and the pressure to perform like a monkey on a typewriter abates somewhat.
So yeah, I have no idea what the point of this exercise was, but I’ve said it and maybe now I can find another way out of this dead end.