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Rant about writer's block and then everything else happened
10 years ago
a!
Seriously, why the fuck is it that stress is seen as en entirely valid reason for a person to be incapacitated from the workforce for whatever length of time for almost every profession, but when a writer is too stressed out or depressed to write, we call it "writer's block" and then have to listen to a bunch of self-righteous assholes preaching that it doesn't exist and that you can just cure it by getting off your lazy ass and writing anyway. Seriously.
Imagine that happening for any other occupation:
"Oh, you're stressed out and you're losing sleep over your marital problems to the point where you barely have the desire to live anymore and it's impairing your ability to do your job? Well, geez, you just have to fight your 'inertia'. if you just put your mind to filing all these stacks of paperwork, I am sure it will go over soon."
LIKE FUCKING HELL IT DOESN'T!
I am not doing well this evening at all. Opened a word document, stared at my unfinished story, realised I had to introduce a room with five people in it. I can't get left alone by people. Can't concentrate. Can't fucking think of anything other than the sheer and utter terror of never making it past page 2. I can't read. I can't think. I can't fucking breathe. I have to vent it all out before I explode.
I lost my father last year and I still haven't gone through the process of grieving yet. Back when he was alive, I felt there was at least some purpose I was fulfilling. I was in school, I could do my part in taking care of him, and listening to him tell his stories about the work he did, and the people he met, and his half-fabricated stories about how he raised an orphaned otter as a kid, and also a red fox, and a crow that always waited for him on the steer of his bike when he went home from school. Mum told me that dad told fake stories more often, but, ya know, as a writer, as somebody who tells 'fake' stories all the time as well, I know that fiction can have a profound impact on reality as well. For those moments, when he shared his probably lied stories of animals he loved and was loved back by, we created a new bond between us.
I miss him so much, and I do not know how to recover from this. I had to quite university last November because the stress piling on top of me was too much. How can a 19 year old kid even focus on exams while his father's ashes come home one day, and his mother collapses with stress because she does not know how to make end's meet anymore.
Now it's May, and I haven't submitted a new story still. My hopes are that I'll crawl out of the valley eventually. I want to have hope again that I am not incompetent. I'm sick of hearing from my brother that I'm "retarded" or that I'm "worthless" and I am sick too of my mum treating me like I am too stupid to understand how to tie my own shoelaces and being hypercritical of everything I do for her. "Oh no, you got the wrong brand of soup! HOW COULD YOU NOT SEE THAT?!"
I'm gonna be 20 this year, and I haven't figured anything out. How am I gonna survive the adult world when writing more than 100 words of fiction literally exhausts me for the rest of the day?
Imagine that happening for any other occupation:
"Oh, you're stressed out and you're losing sleep over your marital problems to the point where you barely have the desire to live anymore and it's impairing your ability to do your job? Well, geez, you just have to fight your 'inertia'. if you just put your mind to filing all these stacks of paperwork, I am sure it will go over soon."
LIKE FUCKING HELL IT DOESN'T!
I am not doing well this evening at all. Opened a word document, stared at my unfinished story, realised I had to introduce a room with five people in it. I can't get left alone by people. Can't concentrate. Can't fucking think of anything other than the sheer and utter terror of never making it past page 2. I can't read. I can't think. I can't fucking breathe. I have to vent it all out before I explode.
I lost my father last year and I still haven't gone through the process of grieving yet. Back when he was alive, I felt there was at least some purpose I was fulfilling. I was in school, I could do my part in taking care of him, and listening to him tell his stories about the work he did, and the people he met, and his half-fabricated stories about how he raised an orphaned otter as a kid, and also a red fox, and a crow that always waited for him on the steer of his bike when he went home from school. Mum told me that dad told fake stories more often, but, ya know, as a writer, as somebody who tells 'fake' stories all the time as well, I know that fiction can have a profound impact on reality as well. For those moments, when he shared his probably lied stories of animals he loved and was loved back by, we created a new bond between us.
I miss him so much, and I do not know how to recover from this. I had to quite university last November because the stress piling on top of me was too much. How can a 19 year old kid even focus on exams while his father's ashes come home one day, and his mother collapses with stress because she does not know how to make end's meet anymore.
Now it's May, and I haven't submitted a new story still. My hopes are that I'll crawl out of the valley eventually. I want to have hope again that I am not incompetent. I'm sick of hearing from my brother that I'm "retarded" or that I'm "worthless" and I am sick too of my mum treating me like I am too stupid to understand how to tie my own shoelaces and being hypercritical of everything I do for her. "Oh no, you got the wrong brand of soup! HOW COULD YOU NOT SEE THAT?!"
I'm gonna be 20 this year, and I haven't figured anything out. How am I gonna survive the adult world when writing more than 100 words of fiction literally exhausts me for the rest of the day?
Want to support me? It's not required but very much appreciated. If you'd like you can drop me a ko-fi.
https://ko-fi.com/joeybuckaroo
https://ko-fi.com/joeybuckaroo
Comment posting has been disabled by the journal owner.
It doesn't mean that you'll just have to take verbal abuse from me, obviously, and I do my best not to act disruptive, but backing off when I tell I am not in the mood, and not blaming me for having a bad day or wanting to do nothing at all for a day will help a lot.
So, yeah, when you see a journal like this, it usually just means I got too weighed down with stress and anger. I wrote it to help myself especially, I guess. I began writing this as a silly rant and then I got furious and I told myself not to stop venting until that anger was gone.
I knew you weren't over your father, but I didn't want to bring it up because then you might get sent back to that state of grieving about your father. Ugh, I hate when family does that, acting like your totally just making a big deal of nothing that can't be controlled. My mother seems to have found the true secrets of free will and let's not even her emotions bother her, so you can guess how she get's around me and my sister when we get this way. How can your brother say that about you?! I'm sorry but he makes me want to smack him in the back of the head. Not that I would want to causing anymore trouble he's just reminiscent of a lot of people I know. My sister would never call me such a thing, man what a bitch! Maybe your brother is hurt too though and something goes through his head when he sees you like this and makes him want to attack you like this but I don't know your brother at all and I don't know your mother either. When ever someone says "They'll always be with you" I always think, how can that be. I know why though especially with your parents, because you are a part of them and you will make similar decisions and mistakes as they have. Your father loved you and would want you to carry on his memory through thought and mind and his stories will always be with you.
I'm sorry if this bother you even more though, I'm not built to be good with words. If you want to talk, you can add me on Skype!