14 January 2018

The Panic

Photo by Jenn Evelyn-Ann on Unsplash

There has been quite a lot of panic today and I think this is the crux of it: that I am not a writer. Or shouldn't try to be one. Or can't be one. I haven't, after all, written anything in five or six or seven years.

I mean, there were one or two bits. They were bad. They went away.

I was going to get a job, guys, any job (I've cleaned toilets, washed dishes, I don't mind), and write on the side. But somewhere something went wrong. Anxiety. Depression. Insomnia. Panic attacks. I lost a few jobs that way, and each time it was much harder to get back up.

So apart from a little Etsy shop I'm unemployed at the moment, and I don't like it.

But, I panic, what's to stop the next job turning out the same way? All the initial hope and enthusiasm gone (maybe this is the one, maybe this time I'll be okay), just right back here except . . . utterly broken, completely spent, empty.



Etsy is alright but it's slow, because I need money to buy stuff to make into different stuff to sell.

Which brings me back to writing. That's free. I love it. What's stopping me? You know, apart from the very normal crippling fear of not being good enough.

I think feel like I'm not allowed, like I should be doing something better or more important, or more financially reliable, or even just sucking it up as most have no choice but to do. And all the time I'm so worried about what people will think, mainly that they will think I'm a slacker.

So . . . I do nothing?

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