I’ve been writing a lot lately. Sometimes I don’t even post it on this blog: I just open MS Word and hammer away at the keyboard until I run out of steam. Sometimes I take to my private Twitter, where my sad thoughts aren’t easily spotted amidst the sparkling wit of another set of 140 characters. More often than I’d like, I take to Facebook and spout out random, vague statements.
Writing is supposed to be a form of communication. It’s supposed to be a way to tell others what you’re thinking, or to get others to feel a certain way. For me, though, my writing isn’t for anyone else. It’s for me to express myself in the most honest way I can, with no interruptions or immediate judgment from others.
My brain has been constantly bombarding itself with all kinds of crap. When I sit down with my laptop and start typing, my head goes temporarily quiet. It fixates on finding the right words, and it forces me to organize my thoughts. It forces me to edit for coherence, and that’s a good thing when you’re spending the entire day feeling overwhelmed by every little thing that comes to mind. There’s a sense of peace in knowing that, at least temporarily, that incessant buzzing in my head has made sense on paper.
Another thing about why I’m writing more often now: I feel alone. I know my friends and family love me, and they’d help if only I’d ask, but truthfully, I don’t feel I deserve any of it. Who am I to demand their time and efforts? I’m just some whiny, depressive loser with a generous helping of self-loathing. No one wants that in their life. No one deserves that.
So instead of talking things out with people, I write, because I want better for them than to waste their breath on me. At least here, in my safe space, I am not wasting anyone else’s time. I will not force anyone to listen to my helpless existential dilemmas. Here, with only my words, the struggle is mine and mine alone, as it should be.