I Feel Like Shit Today, P. 1

Blah Scale: 8.5/10

photo by Matthew Henry on Unsplash

I feel particularly shit today. Like, so unbelievably inadequate I can barely get myself to type. But what else can you do when you feel shit? Ya gotta write. I’ve been especially bad about that lately. That is, writing even when I feel badly. You might be thinking, “It’s okay. Go easy on yourself.” Or maybe not if you’re the cynical type. And if that’s the case—let’s be honest—you’re probably one sentence from closing your tab. Well, what I mean when I say “I’ve been especially bad” lately, I mean it’s been, like, years since I’ve properly journaled. Or in this case, blogged. I used to document everything. I always kept a diary when I was a kid, and I constantly wrote in my *~collaged~* journal throughout middle school and into high school. Envision it: Johnny Depp and Orlando Bloom, re: Pirates of the Caribbean, Josh Hartnett, and maybe even a little Nick Lachey. I upgraded my journal to, you know, a fancy spiral notebook in college. But I was still writing. I wrote a lot about heartbreak, because I had a lot of it in my earlier years. I’m talking walking in on your high school boyfriend having sex with someone else. It was bad. Point is I always wrote. But I hit one major life obstacle around 23 and everything froze. Arnold Schwarzenegger (think Batman and Robin) came in with his silvery Mr. Freeze vibes and fucking dousted me. He stopped me in my tracks and everything either died or went into a seemingly endless hibernation. (I’ll expand more on this later—the obstacle in question—but I don’t feel like tackling that now.) All I can say now is that I feel like slapping myself in the face. I feel like giving myself a lobotomy—or, let’s be frank, I basically did. I stripped myself of the one thing that was a point of confidence, that brought me self-worth—my writing. I did it to myself, but so did my circumstances a bit. Regardless, it all brought me here. To this point of extreme, undeniable self-loathing. A place where I’m so scared to try anything for fear of hating it with every bit of my being. My fear—of failing, of sucking, of feeling intellectually and professionally behind—caged me. Until now, I’m hoping. I’m hoping that by launching this blog I’m freeing myself—and finding you, my reader. Finding you, holding your hand, and maybe even unlocking your cage. I never knew where to turn when I felt my worst, when I felt a little like I do today. I’m sure if I looked hard enough I could have found profiles on Medium that helped me feel more connected. I maybe even could have found accounts on Instagram that gave me tidbits of hope, like @adviceforartists. But the truth? Sometimes reading or seeing other people’s shit made me feel worse. Because I felt so incapable of ever creating anything even remotely on par with their work. Even if I knew I had it in me, I just… couldn’t make or create anything. I don’t want this to be that for you. I want you to read this and know you’re not drowning. Seals and dolphins have forged a breathing apparatus for you, and you’re simply floating in soft blue. I want you to know that the top of the water is there, even if you feel like you can’t see it. And I want you to know you don’t always have to pull yourself up and swim to the surface. Sometimes you have to let yourself wallow. Sometimes you have to let yourself float. Even if it takes, well, years. I might not have full-on wallowed for seven years (yes, SEVEN YEARS), but I did let myself float. I tried to swim here and there, but no matter what I did, I always came back to floating. Life kept kinda holding me down, to be honest. I tried to swim so many times, but it wasn’t time to swim. It was time to float. And I got squirrely. I didn’t want to fucking float anymore. I didn’t want to float while the people around me were swimming. But it wasn’t my will at play. God* had a plan for me. (*Insert the higher power of your choice.) All this said, I think I’m about to swim. And I’m worried as fuck. I’m worried I don’t know how to swim anymore. I know it’s programmed in the depths of my mind, but I’ve been floating for so long while everyone around me has been swimming. I feel like a five-year-old in a pool of Michael Phelps (or Ryan Lochtes—remember that douche?). I want my floaties and, hell, I want my mom. But I know it’s not time to float anymore. It’s time to swim. Swim with me?