Writing for Myself
It’s been a while since I last wrote something for this site. God that fucking sucks. I so desperately wanted to write every week so that I could finally feel confident in my writing, and yet here we are, 147 days later and I’ve written nothing. 147 days. 21 weeks. Almost 5 months. I’ve tried writing since my last piece, but I just haven’t been able to finish anything. I’ve been paralyzed with fear over…what exactly? Judgment? Criticism? Failure? A lack of validation? Disappointment in myself? More ghosts from my past resurfacing just to make themselves known?
I don’t know what I want to say, and yet I still want to say it. I have no goal, nothing specific that I’m trying to accomplish, no argument I’m going to defend with poorly constructed sentences and half-baked versions of other people’s thoughts. I want to have my own thoughts, my own views on things and not be afraid to share them. I want to have something of value to share with the world, some viewpoint that is unique or worthy of being heard.
And yet, I continue to sit here and let my writing collect virtual dust, doomed to never see the light of an open Google Docs window again.
But fuck that. I’m so tired of it. I’m tired of wallowing and cowering in fear, searching for other people’s thoughts on something before I share my own. I’m tired of being a vessel for other’s opinions just so people might like me more. I can’t keep morphing myself into whatever I think others will like just so they might show me some small amount of approval. I cling so desperately to validation and praise from people who barely know me instead of focusing on the people that really matter.
Maybe I’m scared because my last piece was probably a mistake. I poured my soul and a lot of pent up anger and sadness and frustration into it, vainly hoping to get some sort of closure from that. I asked questions, most of which I don’t think I ever really wanted the answer to. I feared that my ex would read it, and yet I think I also desperately wanted her to. I felt so convinced that she deserved to know about the pain she caused me, the anguish that has tormented me since that week in August. I wanted her to know all that I knew, to answer these painful questions.
And she did. Sort of.
But that’s not the point. Those selfish and rash desires just caused me more pain and suffering and confusion and anger. It reignited all of these fires I thought I doused years ago. Turns out that things aren’t so simple. I wrote something that I knew could hurt her and that at least a small part of me hoped would. And it did. But that didn’t make anything better for me. It was immature and dumb and painful. It was a mistake.
But maybe that’s okay.
Maybe I need to make those mistakes, to make completely emotional and irrational decisions. To allow myself to falter and be okay with it. To start trusting myself to weather hardship and have faith in my ability to do the right thing. A lot of my anxieties about whether I’m a good person stem from a fear of whether others will think I am, not what I think. I’m not even sure what I think, but how can I love myself when I’m so worried whether other people will think I’m worthy of love?
So I think it’s time I stopped living my life for everyone else. My own approval is so much more important, and basing that on what I think others will find approvable just sets me up for failure. I want to live my life in love for myself and others, not in fear of what they might think. I want the world to be a better place because I was in it, not because I can perform a version of myself that others find agreeable. I want to create things I’m proud of, things I want to see in the world. I want to love myself because of my own values, whatever those are. I want to love the people around me and share with them in the ups and downs and lefts and rights of wherever life takes us.
I want to start writing for myself.
I don’t know what I want to say, and yet I still want to say it. I have no goal, nothing specific that I’m trying to accomplish, no argument I’m going to defend with poorly constructed sentences and half-baked versions of other people’s thoughts. I want to have my own thoughts, my own views on things and not be afraid to share them. I want to have something of value to share with the world, some viewpoint that is unique or worthy of being heard.
And yet, I continue to sit here and let my writing collect virtual dust, doomed to never see the light of an open Google Docs window again.
But fuck that. I’m so tired of it. I’m tired of wallowing and cowering in fear, searching for other people’s thoughts on something before I share my own. I’m tired of being a vessel for other’s opinions just so people might like me more. I can’t keep morphing myself into whatever I think others will like just so they might show me some small amount of approval. I cling so desperately to validation and praise from people who barely know me instead of focusing on the people that really matter.
Maybe I’m scared because my last piece was probably a mistake. I poured my soul and a lot of pent up anger and sadness and frustration into it, vainly hoping to get some sort of closure from that. I asked questions, most of which I don’t think I ever really wanted the answer to. I feared that my ex would read it, and yet I think I also desperately wanted her to. I felt so convinced that she deserved to know about the pain she caused me, the anguish that has tormented me since that week in August. I wanted her to know all that I knew, to answer these painful questions.
And she did. Sort of.
But that’s not the point. Those selfish and rash desires just caused me more pain and suffering and confusion and anger. It reignited all of these fires I thought I doused years ago. Turns out that things aren’t so simple. I wrote something that I knew could hurt her and that at least a small part of me hoped would. And it did. But that didn’t make anything better for me. It was immature and dumb and painful. It was a mistake.
But maybe that’s okay.
Maybe I need to make those mistakes, to make completely emotional and irrational decisions. To allow myself to falter and be okay with it. To start trusting myself to weather hardship and have faith in my ability to do the right thing. A lot of my anxieties about whether I’m a good person stem from a fear of whether others will think I am, not what I think. I’m not even sure what I think, but how can I love myself when I’m so worried whether other people will think I’m worthy of love?
So I think it’s time I stopped living my life for everyone else. My own approval is so much more important, and basing that on what I think others will find approvable just sets me up for failure. I want to live my life in love for myself and others, not in fear of what they might think. I want the world to be a better place because I was in it, not because I can perform a version of myself that others find agreeable. I want to create things I’m proud of, things I want to see in the world. I want to love myself because of my own values, whatever those are. I want to love the people around me and share with them in the ups and downs and lefts and rights of wherever life takes us.
I want to start writing for myself.
Comments
Post a Comment