Criminal Negligence

I wrote twice in all of 2019.

It isn't due to lack of trauma, it's a sheer matter of negligence and aversion. I don't have to deal with my bullshit if I don't acknowledge it. As long as I stick my head in the sand my complete failure at my own imposed goals will go unnoticed and I can continue on this path of make believe.

Plainly, I've failed at everything I've set out to do in the last two years or so. I called myself a writer, yet I didn't write anything. I didn't draft, and I didn't even brain storm. I spent half a day on it, and then installed a writing program that I then spent more time configuring than actually using. I can't even get myself to write here, where there is literally no audience and no performance to create. How can I call myself a writer when I don't even do the basic things a writer does? What, oh, because three years ago I wrote a bullshit narrative based off actual events that happened to me that some friends liked?

I feel creatively bankrupt. Like I've spent so long escaping into other worlds that I can't exist in this one, let alone create new ones to exist in. Like I've warped my brain into a consume only mode that does nothing else but shut itself off while doing something else, anything else, rather than be left alone with my own thoughts.

I sit here, wallowing in my depression, as it drains my mood into ever deeper pits, lamenting my own failures because i don't have the discipline, or willpower, or strength or whatever have you to commit to the work needed to actually get the results I want. Be it any sort of creative outlet, or my body, or diet. And then I beat myself up for not having said results that I could have had by now if I only had the virtues to do so. I've been practicing yoga off and on for the better part of four years, and yet because I don't have the virtue to continue it regularly, I make no real progress. I could be in much better shape if I bothered to continue working out regularly, but because I don't see results in my hyper short attention span, I get discouraged, and then stop doing it, and then don't get results, and the whole cycle repeats. Look at creativity, had I consistently practiced guitar I likely could have done something with it, yet because I can't play the songs I want to play, I can't ever get the results I want, and since the results I want I can't get, I get demotivated and stop practicing.

There's no sense of just doing it for the fun of it.

And then back to writing, which all along I said the whole fucking point was not even to get results, but just to fucking finish the thing. I invested time and money, I took a class, and yet I can't get more than three chapters in before getting lost in bullshit. Feeling like I don't know where to go or what to write, or what the characters would say or do. I have a half an idea of some cool world building and then I can't get anything else. How could I ever finish a completed story when I don't practice writing stories?

So practice writing you say? Yes great idea, BUT I CAN'T GET MYSELF TO DO SO. Maybe because if I actually allowed myself to practice I'd have to put in the effort, and then, like I do with everything else, I'd realize I'm a failure at that too. After pretending to think this was what I wanted to do, not writing, feelings like I'm back to square one, and at my age I'm not sure I know what to do with the idea of being back to floating in the cosmic void.

Like all the rest of my emotional baggage, it's easier to put it in a closet and pretend than it is to take it out and unpack.

So now I sit here, once again unemployed, with endless time on my hands to do anything, the perfect time in my life to practice writing, and I sit here, depressed, crying on the couch, watching YouTube and playing crappy old video games lamenting why my life feels so empty and directionless, and why I'm so unhappy. While I at least have the awareness to realize my own bullshit, I don't have the capacity to change any of it apparently.

I wish I could just start this life over. Just hit the ol reset switch and call this go a mulligan. I've clearly fucked myself up to the point of being unsalvagable and it would be far easier just to start fresh without all the fucked up processes I've instilled in myself.

A question was posed on reddit earlier, something along the lines of: 13 year old you is teleported to the current time for 24 hours, what do you show them. And the thing that came to my mind was that 13 year old me would be so sad and depressed that after all this time, and everything that I've done, that I'm still a depressed little nothing, who doesn't even have the strength to do the things she wants to do, to get better at what she wants get better at, for the sole purpose of having fun and to do something she set out to do.

Like, those are small fucking goals, and I can't even do that shit right, and if 13 year old me, saw how fucking pathetic I still am, I think she would have put a lot more effort into those suicide attempts.