Writer’s block is a real bitch. There’s no other way to put it. At this point, I don’t even know if that’s what I’d call it. More like a crisis of self. I’ve been mentally listing all of the things that I’d like to have with self- in front of them.
I can sit here and say with complete confidence that I know that I’m not alone. Yet I feel like I am sitting alone is some corner, surrounded by an opaque black shroud that is blocking all of the words from leaving or entering.
It’s pretty dark right now, friends.
There will be people who read this post and nod their heads, because they know exactly how I feel and what I’m going through. Either because they have dealt their own writer’s block, or they’re going through it right this very second.
I repeat that to myself over and over, a reminder, a mantra, “You are not alone. You are not alone. You are not alone.”
The thing is, I think the words might be there and I am afraid to let them out. I’ve shoved a square peg into a round hole and it’s wedged in there so tight, nothing will ever break free.
I know I’m afraid to let them out.
I’ve been doing exercises in creativity and they make my heart race and not in a good way. The anxiety pours out all over the page. Even now, as I sit here and write this, I feel anxiety racing through my body. My shoulders feel like they’re locked in a vise grip and I will never be able to break free. There is this intense pressure to perform and I — can’t.
Not being able to do what I love leaves me feeling numb. I wish I could cry and just get it all out of my body, but even the tears that used to flow freely are locked away in a cabinet somewhere in the dark depths of my brain, the location of the key a fading memory.
My friends, you are not alone. I know that you’re here. While the selfish part of me wants to believe that I am alone in this, I know that I’m not. I’m here, and I’m listening.