How did I convince myself that anybody would ever want to read what I wrote?
I thought I was a halfway decent writer, convinced myself of it because I always got high marks in writing, was in the 93rd percentile on English in the SAT, got a 12 on my English accuplacer at the community college, which is the highest score possible.
It must be my personality which sucks rocks and keeps people from coming back.
I would kill myself if it wouldn't negatively affect certain people, namely my son. Because I am a 666 time loser.
I will never be an acknowledged writer--hell, I can't even get and keep an audience of five or something minimal like that.
I should probably just stop this whole thing now. Quit torturing myself. I am no good. Never have been, never will be. People used to like me because I was a partier. Now that's gone there's nothing left except for an ugly, boring old bag of shit.
Six billion people in the world and I can't even get an audience of five.
What does that say?
Give up your delusion, you piece of shit. You will never be anybody. Nobody will ever like you. You will always and forever suck. You will die alone and in obscurity.
Fuck you. Everyone who ever made fun of you was in fact right.
Go jump off a bridge.
And no, I do not "just need to see a counselor." Are you gonna pay for it? Doesn't help anyway. Neither does medicating myself into a zombie-fied state.
You forget--I've been crazy for a lot more years than most of you bastards have been alive.
Not that anyone is reading this anyway.
And now I can't even get this shit to publish. Oh, the fucking irony!
I never asked to exist. I am an unhappy, miserable accident of fate. I do not believe in any sort of deity, at least not a kind, loving one. Everything is a shitty sort of random chance. In this universe I have come to realize that nothing matters, least of all me.
I am considering that after my aunt, brother, and cousins leave I should just "go the distance." I serve no useful purpose. No-one here loves me anyway. So I should probably just take Bob Seger's advice and go to Kathmandu. If by Kathmandu you mean oblivion.
I used to believe in heaven and hell. I used to believe in existence of a spirit beyond the body. I simply don't any more.
And no, I do not "just need to see a counselor." Are you gonna pay for it? Doesn't help anyway. Neither does medicating myself into a zombie-fied state.
You forget--I've been crazy for a lot more years than most of you bastards have been alive.
Not that anyone is reading this anyway.
I never asked to exist. I am an unhappy, miserable accident of fate. I do not believe in any sort of deity, at least not a kind, loving one. Everything is a shitty sort of random chance. In this universe I have come to realize that nothing matters, least of all me.
I am considering that after my aunt, brother, and cousins leave I should just "go the distance." I serve no useful purpose. No-one here loves me anyway. So I should probably just take Bob Seger's advice and go to Kathmandu. If by Kathmandu you mean oblivion.
I used to believe in heaven and hell. I used to believe in existence of a spirit beyond the body. I simply don't any more.
Just a broken, meaningless shell left behind
Some of us are broken, meaningless shells throughout life.
3 comments:
You are a good writer.
And of course not worthless.
A text is a difficult being. Oh yes - you are too. And any text (of some worth) is a kind of extension of the writer.
I think you should write a text about yourself, not about your friend and his way of (after)life. Write about yerself - no limits - no restrictions: BLAMM. That's the manuscript, sit on it like a hen.
Afterwards the text can be edited and tweaked - but I guess there would not be much work involved, because of the primary quality. Some exemplars should be produced and sent to agents or publishing houses - or self-publishing through an own website can follow. All in all as much control as possible should be in your hands. Why not consider this?
Mago, I'm a bore to write about. I'll eventually turn the private blog into a book about my struggle to overcome squalor. But there's not much fun to be had there. I much prefer writing fiction.
Dunno if you have visited it, but www.pickledthink.blogspot.com is a good friend, a feminist, and a struggling SFF writer.
Much of her blog is about the struggles of getting published. I know with depression we need to work things out for ourselves, with the help of good, strong people. But maybe she can at least help with dealing with the issues you face with regard to your writing.
And she is an amazing woman.
From my perspective, writing (like so many other things) will draw criticism from so many people. Some say you should just write for yourself. Enjoy the act of writing, use it as a catharsis. If others enjoy it or want to publish it, absolutely fucking brilliant. If not, then remember that you enjoyed it, and you are a hell of a lot more important that all of them.
And remember this - if you have touched just one person in your life - if you have made a difference in someone's life - then that gives you unimaginable value.
I am so grateful that my depression has always been relatively mild. But holding on to the knowledge that I have touched people's lives, that is the bright grain of sand that is my foundation now.
Reading this really does have me in tears (but it is a good thing). Because I remember feeling like this. I remember the years of isolation and emptiness. The years of hopelessness and self-hate.
You know how there are markers in our lives? Points where we can say "This is when my life changed"? For me, one of those moments was watching the movie "Mannequin". Crappy movie really, but the central character Jonathon was full of some thing he could never quite bring out. Knew that there was more in him if it could just be released. And the transition brought about in his life because of Emmy (the mannequin/ancient egyptian - told you it was crappy) changed me.
Hope comes in the most surprising of packages, at the most unexpected of times.
Sorry - rambling somewhat. I'll stop now.
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