2020/11/29 (Sun)

I’m depressed. It started about 3 weeks ago now, I suppose it was triggered by PMS and lasted two weeks until my period began. But then surprise surprise, after things got better for a bit, it once again went sideways as it always does. And why did it, you ask? Well because I have been repressing depressive thoughts for weeks now and now they’re finally rising to the top. To be fair, I could still put on Supernatural and do my cross-stitching to escape from myself. It has worked pretty well throughout the month, hasn’t it?

So I finished Nanowrimo today, got my 50k words in like promised. I won the challenge! Yipee!
And yet I do not feel accomplished at all. Possibly because the whole thing had been a total trash-fest.

Last year I promised myself that I was going to incorporate by the end of 2020. And here I am with a month left to spare and I haven’t even looked into the proceedings of doing such a thing.
Probably because I have no swell ideas for a business.

And that’s the thing that’s bothering me beyond anything else in life.
Well because I don’t know what I want to do in life.

This lack of direction is killing me.
I don’t know what I want to do.
The only thing I know is that I don’t want a corporate job for much longer, I detest the rules, the annual evaluations and all of that stupid bullshit. I can’t stand any of it.

I don’t really want to work with clients and build websites n shit for them as that’s just too fucking stressful, I’m not mentally strong enough to know how to deal with people on my own.

I… I’m terrified. Outright frozen with fear.
Fear of what, you ask dear sir? – I refer to myself like someone clearly losing their mind – I’m afraid of wasting my time on something, wasting my time and money, and youth. Pouring all this precious fucking time and effort into something that will not pay off, something that I’ll get sick of and lose interest in the end, wishing that I had put effort into something more sustainable.

I imagine myself a writer – free to do what I want with my time while all the royalties flow in, working slowly on my books at my own pace (somewhat my own pace) without any fucking contracted 8 hours a day and having to request time off for Christmas.
I see such fucking beautiful worlds in my mind, art sparks so many emotions and feelings in me and I want to share the worlds I build, the conversations I have in my head.
I want people to love my characters and get inspired by them too.
I want to write silly romance stories and games like the Arcana to bring joy to people as well as to myself.

I do.
At least I think I do.

Because there’s something else in my head and in my soul that sneers at me for being so naive. Other people have been writing their whole lives and haven’t been published, why do you think you would ever be able to earn enough money to do that full-time?
Do you really think people won’t be able to see through your writing and peer into that insecure amateur heart of yours?

But this doesn’t feel like some impostor syndrome talking, it feels more tired, more sick of my antics in a way.
“You always get tired of the things you throw yourself into, it’s always the same, isn’t it? Why would this time be different?”
Something like that.

I’m petrified to pour time and effort into writing only to find myself at 35 working the exact same job stuck in a corporate world having wasted away my time, youth, money and effort for something that never panned out.
I’m afraid of dreading to wake up and not wanting to ever go to sleep when I’m 35.

Even more lost, broken and afraid than I am now.

Wasting time.
The idea frightens me so much.

Days pass by me while I just work work work and then spend the few hours before bed trying to suppress all of my depressive thoughts only to repeat the exact same thing again the very next day.

I can’t do this.
I’m going insane.
I don’t know what to do.

I have confidence in my ability to carry through once I know what I want. Be it get a scholarship in Japan, getting a job there, moving across the world and getting a job here during a pandemic in mere months swiftly moving into a new flat.

What am I doing with my life?

This question has no answer, none that would satisfy me at least.

I feel like such a failure wasting my time away rotting, amateur, useless, lost and depressed.

God I don’t know what to do.

I want to know what I want from life and I can’t help but feel jealous of people who do have their direction at least somewhat set.
Like [redacted] is going to get their works published and knows that they want a family.

But what the fuck do I want to do?
Nothing, really…

I thought that I wanted to do events and all that crap because I enjoy the feeling of accomplishment once you’re through with it, the thrill of solving issues that arise during said event and working as a whole team, giving everyone a sense of safety as I bellow out my commands.
And what of it?
I know that the event world is a fucking black hole that will suck the living hell out of me if I even as much as step into it.
So I never really did much about it, especially now that there’s a fucking pandemic going on.

I want to act, I do want to dance, I do want to paint and read, and keep learning about anything that catches my eye, having the luxury of time to do so.

I want to want to do things.
And yet I shiver at the thought of attending something after work hours like joining a salsa group or whatnot.

I feel tragically pathetic, unable to accomplish anything I ever said I wanted to do.

And so I guess writing is the next thing on my ‘would like to do’ list that I’m going to abandon in a couple of months after I’m unable to write anything that doesn’t sound like absolute fucking garbage.

Do I believe in myself enough to allow the time and effort needed to improve in my writing, am I going to allow myself the growing pains and depressive bouts of impostor syndrome and creative blocks?

Do I believe in myself enough to give this a fair shot allowing myself to wake up one day 10 years from now thinking back on all the hours I’ve spent writing and not hating myself for it?

I’m afraid that I don’t.

If only I knew that I wanted to do this, THIS and nothing else, I’d be grand.
I keep telling [redacted] to quit their job, start afresh because why the hell not? Hashtag YOLO for fuck’s sake.

It’s easier to tell other people that they should find something they’re passionate about than uncovering where your own passions lie.

I’ve been crying on and off writing this, the fear and uncertainty hitting me hard.
There are no conclusions here, there are no new discoveries.
Because I do not know what I want to do, I do not know what to pour my time to that won’t make me regret it when I’m old.

When did I get so afraid of ageing? The answer eludes me but here I am, one day waking up old, depressed and lonely being my new nightmare.

I’m so afraid of everything.
And I can’t allow myself the time to not know what to do with my life.
I’m so fucking scared.

And time is steadily running out.
Fractions of the present turning into past lost without my consent, trickling away as if cursed, not stopping to hear out my pleas.

Time is running out.
And I am petrified.