Is Writing Saving or Destroying My Sanity?

I write ...a lot.


I’d be lying if I said I didn’t carve out at least an hour out of my day to draft some sort of essay, poem , story -HELL- even journal entry.  It appears as though some unequivocal need to express myself has taken predominance within all aspects of my life lately. At times I feel a bit mad, like a loose cannon. I have this over abundance of energy seemingly bleeding through my veins and I don’t know what to do with it.

Exercise, sex, drinking, literally NOTHING seems to maim this ever present cry, “to create,” from deep within me. All these pursuits are far too shallow and merely drain my energy. I have many friends and  plans for nearly each day/night, but they’re just exhausting me.

Truthfully, an internal, perennial discomfort between “normalcy”, “conformity” and “authenticity” is what’s driving me mad. I’m at a place, personally, where I want to challenge myself and hone the type of skills I once scoffed at. There’s nothing wrong with business savvy, I suppose, yet it’s a real struggle for me.

Each time I take 2 steps forward, it feels like I can’t help but take 5 backwards. It’s just so unnatural and stifling at times that I feel compelled to, “fuck up” as a way of rebelling against the system.  Ultimately, i’m really just defying myself, but I can’t stop myself once the wheels start turning.

I find myself doing the same thing with all my relationships at the moment as well.

Maybe, instead of self-sabotage i’m really just scared and protecting myself from external critique and failure. Hell, if I’m going to fail I want to be the one to kick my own ass down the flight of stairs. I’ve always been the type to internalize my pain, but I feel as thought I’m just disappointing and annoying people around me. If I hear another person tell me, “you’re too hard on yourself!” I may lose it.  They simply can not comprehend the motivation behind my “unrealistic” ideals, because they are not me. Only I know what I am capable of and know I am far removed from it at the moment. Perhaps, I’m where I am right now in order to adopt more humility... to build a sturdier foundation...  to become more open and adaptable, I don’t know.

This leads me to wonder whether thinking so fucking much and expressing myself are merely forms of escapism? Are these maladaptive, escapist tendencies so embedded in me that i’m sabotaging my own relationships and career out of ...mental laziness? I knew I was disconnected from myself, but I didn’t believe how much so... hm. Maybe I’ll just stop now before I fall down the rabbit hole once again.  I’ll end this with a short work I wrote a while back that seems suiting:

i’m content in the cocoon i’ve built

to be tortured by my own mind

because i refuse to believe

love is a burnt out city,
abandoned and dilapidated,
so desperate and alone
solitude does not suffocate,

but protects, the romantic imagination

Update Three Years Later

Truthfully, I could not tell you what led me back to this blog. Perhaps the den of self-depreciation I've wallowed in for the past few months finally lost it's allure. Oh, the irony of methodical thinking... Surely there must be some way to redirect my thoughts once I'm tempted to slide down a slippery slope into the introspective abyss?  It's not like the labyrinth is a fun place to be. Oh, on the contrary...

As of this very moment, I've decided to try this thing called, "not thinking so much and taking things at face value".

Hmm, well... this feels foreign and weird and yucky (yucky?), but to Hell with it. I suppose I am finally ready to get out of my head and out of my own way. As homey and cozy as Hotel Self-Sabotage has been, I'm certain that I have overstayed my welcome and no one wants to be ...that guy (or gal, for you social justice warriors out there).

I wish I could say there has been tremendous personal progress since last writing in this blog, but, unfortunately, nothing outlandish.  If anything, I became even more introspective and reclusive, which, granted, has been fantastic for my writing. There's something special about the, "Writer-Recluse Archetype" - just look at J.D. Salinger, Emily Dickinson, Emily Bronte...

This past September through April, I truly lived and breathed creative writing.

Nearly every moment of genuine happiness stemmed from bleeding my heart and soul into my work or from watching the poison leave my earthy body, drip by drip.  I felt such zest and vigor for life that passion seemed to seep from my pores. Life had color again and all I wanted to do was to pick up a paintbrush and paint my own technicolor portrait.

What is life without passion? Well, nothing other than a bland, colorless wasteland!

Unfortunately, I took this ideology to heart and deemed all things lacking passion as wastes of time. Negative. Shallow. Beneath me.

Oh, what a silly girl I am.

For the past three months, I have watched myself from above and laughed at my own stupidity whilst deeply enmeshed, trudging through it. Three months spent drowning in a tepid pool of self-perpetuated inertia. Truthfully, a prisoner of my own making. Ha! My psyche must have found comfort in pointing a finger and laughing at myself, as I simply can not imagine why else I'd let it go on for so long?

Well, for what it's worth, there have been many positives amidst the madness. I'm reprogramming myself to focus on such sentiments. More often than not, I've seen myself in many of the people around me - the majority being those that I genuinely like and respect. This sparks something within me, although I can't quite point my finger on what it is, but it makes me feel alive. Connection and recognition of the soul in another is a beautiful thing.

Yet, I spend an inordinate amount of time dissecting my relationships and analyzing other people's behavior. As always, I sought to make connections between seemingly unrelated things and figure out the root cause of others' actions. At times I have been guilty of questioning others motives when unnecessary.

This has become a bad habit and it's starting to hinder, rather than aid my growth.  The more I infringe my personal ideologies and "quest for knowledge" on others, the more I realize I'm pushing people away.

Have I really become this self-absorbed?

Sadly, yes, but today - or tonight, rather - marks a new day. A new habit. A new perspective. A new life.  With writing this, I hold myself accountable and can only shift my mind state towards the positive, the real and the now.

Idealism and reclusivity - the writers life - may be fun and all, but it's time I stop neglecting the other facets of my personality. At times I dislike that my personality is comprised of so many intricate layers, because it can get quite exhausting thinking about them... tending to them... nurturing them.... mastering them....

Time. What a gift.