Messy Thoughts: Another attempt at making writing a habit

The following is a personal test to write anything, something, whatever and let it live outside of my brain. I have so much pent up anxiety about what it means to write for others to read in this blog format. Because of that anxiety, I sit down to write and I immediately panic and move onto some other scatterbrained thing. I am treating my life as if magically I will have the motivation, inspiration, or will power to be this optimal human being tomorrow. It is always tomorrow this, tomorrow that. Fuck tomorrow.

I called Sis the other morning in full tears. I almost called Dad and asked for money to get therapy because damn, sometimes my mood plummets to dooms day levels and for eight wild minutes, I feel like I am worthless bag of shit. I’d like to think everyone has these moments and we don’t talk about them enough. I am here to normalize the panic of realizing I am alive and this is my life and I have no idea what I am living for and I am too much of X and not enough of Y and for fucks sake, why can’t I just do the things I need to do and get out of my own way with the overthinking.

If this is not something you have experienced, good on you. For anyone who relates, good on you, too. We probably both would value the help from a professional to help mitigate moments like I described. In the meantime, my jobless, broke self is going to use puking words into a blog form for the time being as a coping mechanism for my existence.

Back to Sis though. After sob crying about what not, she reminded me of the quote, “Life is hard. Choose your hard.” This truth has been lingering in my mind since. This idea is applicable to endless aspects of my life.

For example: Watching tv, eating bags of chips, sneaking chocolate during late night hours, and then looking in the mirror and hating myself is hard. Making a commitment to take a morning walk, blend a smoothie, running a few times a week, and going to bed before second dinner ideas start swirling in my head is also hard. The former is hard in a way that leads to persistent negativity in my mind and hatred of body. It is a hard that I am very familiar with. However, in the past year, I have chosen a new hard, the latter being an example of a lifestyle that uplifts me. A hard that is rooted in self love. A hard that means I feel regularly tuned into myself, my emotions, the ebbs and flows of my thoughts.

Previously, the tv, endless instagram scrolling, bottomless bags of chips made me numb. I didn’t have to feel everything always. Until it all compounded and left me depressed. Now, I feel exposed to acknowledging triggers, aware of thoughts that need to be worked through, picked apart, and left behind. Instead of depression, it is anxiety that looms. The overthinking, doubt, assumptions still leave me lost on how to be sometimes. Evolving oneself is hard and it comes with reflection. And that brings in the writing.

Have y’all tried this? This is hard. I can journal all day, fill pages with gratitude lists, free flowing randomness, minute detail of how I spent my morning in the sun, drinking coffee. That is not hard for me. But this, this writing right here, it is FUCKING HARD. There is so much doubt about how a reader interprets it, what a stranger might think of me, it feels obnoxious, and more noise on the internet. I question why any of it matters? Who do I think I am to have something to say?

And this is what I land on for today: Who the fucks cares? Y’all, I want to write. And I need to get out of my own way to do it. I want to give myself the space to process my days, my emotions, the funny bits and the deep, unanswerable questions. I want to tell you about brewing Kombucha and why clamshell plastics aren’t recyclable. I want to tell you about how I have a worm composting bin and named all the worms Jimmie. And I don’t want to wait until tomorrow to do it.

Asking myself to write is asking myself to sit down, stay in the chair, and be so fucking present it hurts. In this moment, now. And y’all that is why I can’t wait for tomorrow, all we have is NOW. When I get snagged on how to find the words, I have to stick with it. Writing is this wild process of working through what is in my head, connecting the ideas, and figuring out how to convey how I see and go about the world to whoever you are that reads it. Beyond that, writing is my form of becoming. By blogging and not just journaling, I am asking myself to get beyond the surface and be accountable to my truth.

I want to write a book in my lifetime. And that is not going to happen if I don’t write. I have to practice and continue to show up for myself.

A friend reminded me of this idea a while back. She said, “BeyoncĂ©’s epic homecoming show at Coachella in 2018 wasn’t the greatness it was without every single day before that where she and the entire ensemble dedicated their time to the blood, sweat, and tears it takes to perform at that caliber. The spectacle that started with ideas and were worked on, fine tuned and ultimately executed over and over again. You don’t just arrive to greatness without the tedious, daily work and the practice of your craft.

So that’s that. I am about to conclude this and publish it. Their is a loud voice in my head that is screaming, “DO NOT DO THAT.” And I am going to listen to the quieter whisper that says, “It’s not that serious.” The thousand plus words here feel chaotic and I am going to let that chaos exist outside of myself. I appreciate you reading and keeping me accountable to my goals.

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