I’m trying to write.
I promise, I am.
But there’s something in the way – something indestructible, unrelenting, remorseless and resistant.
I’m not sure what it is. I have many ideas as to what it could be, though.
Perfectionism.
A need for approval and acceptance.
Being debilitatingly critical before I ever put a word on the page.
I grew up diffident. I grew up begging to be different, scrutinizing every choice, asking for a miracle that would make me something perfect. A being that never made any mistakes, never left anyone wanting for more, never taking up an excess of space. Doing the most while receiving the least.
It takes a toll on a person.
So here I am now. Attempting to take up space. Writing for myself and no one else, choosing to prioritize what I want, finding roadblocks in the way. They are self-made, put in place with my own two hands and hammered into the ground. Yet, I don’t even know how to dismantle them.
My guess? It’ll take time. It’ll take writing. It’ll take staring at a blank page or a blinking line, fingers covered in ink or hovering over a keyboard. In all honesty, I wish I could be more inspired. I wish I could write and edit after, not during. I wish I could just put something onto a page and not worry about it in the process. But, alas, that is not how it works for me. I must make my way through the best I can with what I have.
Maybe in the future it will get easier. I will wait for that day.
– B