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CW: Mention of self harm and declining mental health, Implication of alchohol abuse

I have been dreading writing something all day, and know why. This outlet, “joe” or “blog of ones own” or “google docs” or whatever you want to call it, is probably good for me, in some regard. Creativity is flowing out from my fingertips, publishing unpolished work is good for the ego, the best writers write every day, all this I know. I am the problem.

This outlet of good intention and productivity is being warped by me to write about my own mental health nearly constantly, and each time I sit down to write the first thing my conscious state does is sink into a pit of self-loathing and depression. I know that when I sit here I won’t reach for happy memories, teaching my brother Magic the Gathering, the walks with friends on a frozen lake, the splitting seams at improv practice; instead I pull out her face when she told me longing can be physically painful, I see my relapses in this room last term, insomniac states that spin me into delirium. Those are the evils I find before anything. It doesn’t feel good to write about those things, each one is a pang of depression, disorder, or devastation that I spend every waking moment of my days trying to burry, but they float to the top here, and I hate that.

I could never be a travel blogger or a food critic, my impulse would be to reflect on the local church’s architecture as it relates to the chapel of his funeral or to draw comparisons between the first course and the airplane food on the way back home, sobbing in the plane bathroom because I can’t bare to watch another liquid dinner from my father. Even now when I’m trying to explain how much it hurts I’m falling into the trap. A piece of me wonders if this is self harm, to write about these things. If I refuse to let myself experience the pain anymore and I refuse to enact any on myself, I have to find another way. I’ve always found another way.

I wish I wasn’t as crafty.

Perhaps in the future I’ll run out of sad things to say and my personal essays can be about love and beauty and joy. The video logs I make are usually about those things, likely because capturing pain on video isn’t something I’ve ever practiced. The projects I’ve made about my pain and suffering are often some of my least favorites—many aren’t even public on youtube anymore. I enjoy editing footage of my friends smiling and animals sleeping. I apparently enjoy writing about my innermost pain I can’t verbalize to friends. What can I make of the disconnect there?

I am tired and would like to finish my cup mac and cheese. I am going to draw something tonight.

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