Below you will find a brain dump of mine that I wrote a while ago. I rarely if ever share anything like this but I decided to put it out there. Not because I want anyone to feel sorry for me but because I’m sure I’m not the only one who feels like this once in a while. It’s good to know you’re not alone. Even if you are… No responses necessary, no comments needed. Just decided to share today. Namaste.
What do you do when you have nothing left to write about? You stare at the computer screen like it’s an old friend turned enemy. Words don’t flow through your brain the way they used to. No one speaks to you in your head, telling you stories to write. Your muse has abandoned you for another. You do what I am doing. Write only what comes to mind at the time. And none of it makes sense.
Everything I loved to do wasn’t ever my idea to start. For many years I sewed. It wasn’t my idea to start sewing. An ex suggested if I wanted a Renaissance costume I make one myself. I hadn’t sewn anything except a button since ninth grade. What did I know of sewing? Pretty much nothing. But I wanted a costume and that desire resulted in over a decade of clothing designing.
I’ve sewn many things for many people. Wedding dresses and suits, swimsuits, prom dresses, stripper clothes, drag queen outfits, Halloween outfits and the list goes on. Most of it I loved to do. Some of it was a pain in the ass to be sure. But it really wasn’t my idea in the first place.
And writing, again, wasn’t my idea. I’ve created poetry over the years going back to high school. When the mood moves me it can be quite good. But nothing I really share with anyone but myself. So when a friend pretty much challenged me to write I didn’t think it would go anywhere.
Then I sat down to write. A few months later I had what some would call a book. I was actually pretty impressed with myself that I did it. But then the hopes rose that this might be something I was good at. Some people actually liked it enough to buy it. But it never became anything other than what a few friends purchased. Unfortunately it needed a follow up book to finish the story. So I wrote that too. And it sits on a flash drive waiting to be edited and maybe, someday, be released for those few who actually want to read it. But I don’t have my hopes up for that either.
I’ve tried many times to sit down and write something else. I did write a small short story but put that on my blog since I knew it wasn’t good enough to attempt to sell. I also have a few romance novels that I’ve started but remain unfinished. I just don’t know how to finish them.
I heard in an interview by a now famous author that you should write what you like to read. I like to read a lot of things but I lack the patience to research anything and don’t want to write anything that would require doing that. So I’m stuck with my own limitations there I guess.
So sewing and writing are a bust. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised since I never wanted fame from either anyway. It’s great to be appreciated for something you do, don’t get me wrong. I’m just not the type to be in the spotlight. I can handle it well enough I guess. I just fear it beyond all rationality.
But I crave it just the same. Not for reasons you might think however. I just don’t want to leave this world leaving behind nothing of merit. The job I have now is unrewarding. It pays bills and provides insurance for my family. But it doesn’t MEAN anything. No one will look back and say how important it was. How it changed lives.
I guess that’s what I wanted to do. Make something so special, so profound, that it impacted someone. It made someone’s life better. I guess that’s what most of us strive to do. Then again, maybe not. I don’t even know anymore.
What I do know is that I’m sitting here, in my chair, with a movie on the TV, typing something no one will ever read. Nothing I say here will ever make an impact. But I guess that’s probably a good thing. It’s beginning to sound like a pity party – something I hate more than most things. Feeling down is one thing. Dragging others down with you so you’re not alone in your misery is something completely different.
But I write when I don’t know what else to do. I have written hundreds of pages just to get thoughts out of my head. I’ve destroyed them all, of course. I won’t let people read what I’ve written when I’m in those moods. It’s mostly for a purging of sorts of the brain. When the thoughts get so jumbled that I can’t seem to think anymore it’s time to get it all out.
And I guess that’s what this is too. Just a brain dump of random crap from the cells in my brain that have bounced around too long driving me crazy.
I should be more grateful. I know this. I’m blessed in my life in many ways. But I’m also sad and confused and have no idea where to go from here. There should be more. At least I think there should be. I keep thinking that I was meant for more. But I have no idea what that would be. I know I can’t be the only person who has even felt this way. But it doesn’t stop the feeling of loneliness that encompasses me when I stop and really think about how far I really haven’t gotten in life.
This isn’t a slam on anyone in my life but myself. I have three wonderful daughters – all of which I love more than I will ever be able to put into words. If I leave nothing else in the world I know I leave them, and they are a good thing in my life, a great thing I was able to do. And I am privileged to be their mother. I have a husband who loves me like no other. I have a wonderful mother and brother who mean the world to me. I can never thank them enough for all they have done for me.
And still I sit here, feeling like there should be more. More to me. More to what I do. I know – there are many charities I could work with, places I could volunteer, things I could DO. I guess I’m just selfish that I want to do something different, unique, special – all my own – that I would be remembered for. That touched other’s lives. That “meant” something.
That I meant something. Something worth remembering.
I just don’t think I have done that. That “thing” that people remember for generations to come. That “thing” that changed lives for the better. Whatever that “thing” is.
But I guess it would be hard to do whatever it is I think I should be doing when I don’t even know who I am to be doing it. Sometimes I think I know. There are glimpses of myself that I see that remind me of the person I thought I was – thought I wanted to be. Then, like a shadow, it disappears with the light of day, only to be seen in the random flashes in the corner of my eye. You know the kind – the ones that disappear and were seemingly never there when you fully look in the direction you thought they were.
Either way, this isn’t me. At least I don’t think it is. But if this isn’t me then who is? What is? Who am I really and have I ever really known myself in the first place? Have the masks I’ve worn for so long become permanently affixed to my face so even I don’t remember what is underneath? Have I forgotten what I look like beyond that which others see? What I show them? Would I recognize me if I saw me? Would others? And would anyone like the real me – including me – if I finally found who I am and became that person?
I suppose others have asked themselves these questions too. Maybe they haven’t. Maybe I am the only one lost in my own head far too deep to ever climb out of the hole I have fallen into.
I just don’t know.
What I do know is once you have journeyed on the path I have taken you can’t un-remember what you have seen. What you know. Ignorance can be bliss and there are days I wish I could return to a place where the mind doesn’t know. But I wouldn’t be the little bit of me that I know of without that knowledge. And so I am stuck knowing what I know, and not knowing what I don’t know. And both driving me insane at times.
Not that anyone else would care. Not that they should. It’s not their life. It’s mine. For regardless of how many people walk next to you on your path, regardless of how many people cross your path, regardless of who has walked before you and follow behind you, you are the only person to walk YOUR path, at that moment, ever. And you walk it alone. Always.
You can share the memory, the moment, but it’s always yours alone. No one can know how you felt exactly. Why you did what you did, why you are doing what you are doing. No one can understand fully. And sometimes you can’t understand fully yourself.
But what you do realize is your path is yours to walk – alone. Your whole life. No matter who you impact or influence.
I don’t know what I am talking about at this point. I’m just brain dumping again to get whatever I need to off my mind. Clear some space. Make room for more nonsense I guess. And it won’t take long to fill it with more I’m sure.
And I’ll find myself back here writing it all down for no reason at all except I can. Which I guess is as good a reason as any.