It would be negligent of me to not write a post before midnight to commemorate the two-year anniversary of this blog. This blog is the longest standing public internet writing project I have ever maintained.
I can’t really say it’s been successful. I don’t have a community that reads it. I haven’t completed any of the projects I’ve attempted here, not that series of articles on language, not even posted another portion of my favorite short story, not NaPoWriMo, nothing. I wonder if it’s worth the internal pressure I feel to continue to update this blog. Maybe I’ll complete some of those things sometime.
Like I wrote in my last post, I’m having trouble writing clearly lately. I thought the little burst of clarity that my last post had would break through and save me. I thought getting some sleeping pills would save me, or going to a party, or reading a book, or free-writing, or getting away from the computer, or going for a run. Nothing works and nothing matters. I’m experiencing an extreme creative low-point. Even poetry, which always came easily to me, isn’t coming any more.
Is it cyclical like erectile dysfunction, where the fear of not performing makes it harder to perform and more humiliating? Is that even how erectile dysfunction really works? Actually, from experience, that’s sometimes the case. And I wish I could implicate the person I experienced with, but I want neither problems nor to offer him publicity.
Everyone did everything else they wanted: got skinny, made friends, wrote books, got a girlfriend, got a job, moved: successes.
And I’ve stayed in this rut forever. Unable to move, paralyzed with humiliation and shame and repeated failures to dig my way out of it leaving ugly bruises on my raw knuckles. It fucking hurts. And this is the first time I’m going to admit it publicly, my resentment. Granted, no one will read this. (For reference, to my own surprise, I’m even writing this sober.) So it won’t matter that I threw a tantrum on my blog at nearly midnight.
And it’s against policy to delete my posts, so I’m going to have to bury this shame under other failures of posts. Many more, cascading failures. I wonder if I’ve changed, or grown, or even made progress in my life. I’ve been crazy for this long. Whatever.