This is neither surprising, given my mental health history, nor particularly unique, given the state of the world. My difficulties were rather selfish. I was... am... struggling with the whole writer thing. I have been working for so long, and have, I feel, not gotten to where I had hoped to be at this stage of my life.
Like, nothing is the way I imagined it.
And while I have a great deal more than others, I find myself sitting in a pool of dissatisfaction and self-loathing.
My thoughts are vicious at the moment, berating everything from my appearance to my abilities. Work out more. Eat less. You're a sow in lipstick. You're unloveable, or you'd be married by now (never mind that I don't particularly want marriage. Logic has nothing to do with this). The one that actually smarts most at the moment, however, is what my horrible inner-voice is saying about my writing.
I have many books published. I have people who've read my stories and loved them - they've told me so themselves. And still... and still I feel like I am failing at the one thing in my life I want most of all. It is my dream that one day, my writing will provide enough financial support that I can live off it alone. Any other work I do will be just for the enjoyment of it (martial arts instruction, for example).
But I've been writing now for almost a decade, and I'm restless. I'm not where I feel I should be. Surely, if I was half as good a writer as I thought, I should be further in my career. I should be able to at least make more than forty bucks a year from it.
Much of it is, of course, my shortfalls as a marketer. I cannot market my work for the life of me. It's no wonder I'm not doing well.
And still, I find myself angry at myself for all that I don't have. I feel like I will never succeed.
To be perfectly honest, I don't know why I'm angry and upset over it all. I am a published author. That's success for a good many people. Shouldn't that be enough? I don't understand why it isn't, and I hate myself for that, too. I should be content.
I am not.
The voice that usually whispers what a terrible writer I am was not whispering this weekend. It was screaming so loud I was in bed all yesterday with a headache.
Anyway, all this to say that I'm not in the best of moods going into this week, and I'll probably be out of sorts for a little while. I'm not particularly searching for pity or compliments, either. They'd probably annoy me while I'm in this mood, in any case. I just really needed to get this all off my chest.
Perhaps things will be looking up. Maybe something wonderful is just around the corner.
Maybe this is the best I can ever hope for.
In the end, it doesn't really matter all that much. I will write regardless because I am compelled to. Because I'd go mad if I didn't. Because the voices shouting their stories at me often drown out that insidious little voice that tells me there's no point, that I'm not up for the task, that I was and always will be a failure.
Yeah, I'm in a mood.
I hope you're all in a better place than i at the moment, and that I didn't drag you down with this post. Don't worry for me. This mood will pass, and I'll be back to worrying about things that actually matter in the world.
Keep safe. I'm sending you all love and kindness in this, the fifth week of pandemic-induced self--isolation.