An Introduction

Recently, I signed up for what I thought was a creative writing class that would provoke new ways for getting the writing process started and filtering through accumulated ideas and long forgotten characters. In other words, provide a remedy for the dreaded “writers block.” It did no such thing. In fact, the class focused around “combining” sappy haikus, Shakespeare quotes and historical events to create silly, childish hybrid stories fraught with clichés and oozing with mawkish sentiment. This was supposed to spark good writing. I made an effort to attend a grand total of three out of five classes, ditching one to go to a Dave Eggers event (totally worth it) and the other out of sheer contempt.

Before I headed out for the first class, still optimistic with the possibilities, I was a bit contemplative about why it is I write in the first place. But when I really thought about it, I realized that most of time I do not actually write anything at all. It feels like a chronic sickness, a wound that reopens, bleeding onto the pages, and then scabbing over until I tear the new, fragile skin once again. And what comes from such a process are mere fragments, ideas and characters so broken and misplaced that all they do is linger on the page, cursor blinking relentlessly, always waiting for something else to produce itself, make the words flow like poetry, the characters seem interesting, likeable, the plot to unfold and transition.

Sometimes I’m reserved to the fact that my stories and characters can really only live their most vivid and fullest in my head, not on paper. And definitely not in a full-length novel. But I push and pull and fight, frustrated and overpowered by my inability to make them real to anyone but myself. I have so much to relate, to connect, but I can’t orchestrate my brain and hands to make thoughts, images and personalities, noise and mind chatter into life on paper. It all comes out dead. Like I’ve “written” a great speech in my head, infused with passion and emotion, the tone and mood perfect, everything beautiful and smooth. And when I’m finished, I must sit in front of a computer and try to spit the whole thing back out through my fingers. Somehow it’s always one step forward, two steps back, and then another step right into a bottomless hole.

But this blog isn’t about the writing process or providing a place to post my fragmented work.

Not too long ago, my best friend (and only close friend) stopped talking to me because she said I was treating her like she was my therapist. It’s nothing new really, but I guess she just reached a point where she no longer could help me, offer any more advice or deal with my problems. I understand her frustration and know exactly what it’s like to be in her position, because I was once her springboard for rants and a person she could lay out all her problems to. But I’ve reached my own breaking point where I can no longer accept uncertainty and unanswered questions. And no one is listening.

My own personal hell started in college with depression. But even before then, I was paralyzed by severe social anxiety and never truly fit in with my peers. After almost four years of depression, including one and a half on medication, I thought I had reached a neutral state of existence. I had accomplished moving to a new city and attaining an internship and later a decent job. I became a full-fledged vegan. Thanks to people like Eckhart Tolle, Ethan Nichtern and Charles Eisenstein, I felt I had reached a higher level of human consciousness and began seeing the world for what it really was. But new symptoms (and old) started creeping into my life. Unanswered questions nagged once again and a full-on identity crisis loomed. How could I make sense of it all?

No diagnosis or disorder fits, just as I don’t fit into this world. And it’s not about changing myself to try and fit in, it’s about trying to figure out who I am in the first place and force the world to make room for me. The symptoms are many (emptiness, unreality, binge eating, anger, mood swings, lucid dreaming, crying spells, dysfunctional personality, low self-esteem, inability to make and keep friends, loneliness, forgetfulness, suicidal thoughts, trouble concentrating, social anxiety, low blood pressure, asexuality, unstable self-image, misanthropy, pessimism, inability to love, lack of motivation) but the answers are few. Therapists (and I have seen my fair share) often retreat into the mysterious abyss of childhood to try and solve your heavy afflictions. Though I don’t remember a thing before the age of six or what I was feeling during my adolescence (unfortunately I didn’t keep a journal), my childhood and teenagehood memories are all fairly pleasant. And aside from slightly emotionally distant parents, I was loved and well-cared for in a stable home environment. I don’t know where this leaves me today. Still searching for the unattainable “why?”

So I turn to writing to cope with my myriad of issues even though mostly, I still can’t write anything of any consequence. Underneath, my heart beats like a good writer, but there is nothing for me to give right now. And wasting money on shitty writing classes only fuels my anger and frustration. Though I cannot turn off my obsessive and overwhelming thoughts, I can easily get lost in a movie to find some kind of relief, if only for a few hours. But distractions are only temporary solutions to a larger puzzle.

I’ve taken a stab at vlogging on youtube, but I’m painfully afraid of cameras and it all feels terrifically awkward (especially when I can’t find the right words). I think this blog will provide a place for me to express some of my thoughts, rant to complete strangers since I’ve scared away all my real friends, and ultimately help me connect with others who may know exactly where I’m coming from. Or maybe not. Perhaps it will be nothing more than the angry musings of a disenchanted, disillusioned, lonely young adult, trying something new to feel real again. Or maybe I'll reach that imaginary somewhere.