Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I research for hours. I read all sorts of books on writing, Buddhism and productivity. I even manage to put my work out into the world once I finish it.
But I still don’t believe I can do this.
And for the fucking life of me, I don’t know why I’m telling anyone else that. I’m supposed to be better, some new man, but I’m not.
After the various disastrous relationships, the medication, the therapy and the grand transformation that was my first book, I am still unable to keep my mind and path clear. Just the same shit clanging in my head. The fear and discomfort are always more real than all of that theoretical progress.
What the fuck am I supposed to say? I love you all. You’re wonderful. This place is wonderful. It’s me that’s the problem, and even if I’m pretty sure that my depression is going to be the end of me, you knew that already. There’s no one that doesn’t know that.
And it’s my fault. It’s my fault for not learning to fight harder, to find better ways to treat myself… it’s very much my fault that even though I grew up being told I was some sort of fucking genius that I never learned how to outsmart myself.
What the hell’s the point of an education or an amazing mind if you’re dead? Still can’t figure that one out. Been taught wrong my whole fucking life.
Fuck.
Typing it out makes me feel better, and by tomorrow, this shit might be out of my system, but I’m not convinced I can do any of this. And I know damn well that I won’t know until I’ve either done it or looked back on it with regret.
Fucking life. It’s a fucking miracle, and it’s also a fucking motherfucker.
