The experts say writing is about honesty, and divulging the deepest truths we can bare to put on paper, but how does one go about this?
What does it actually feel like to be truly honest? To speak experience without the cover of bias or emotion, and write something of real meaning and value. A noble goal, but how many of us really get there?
No matter how many times I type what I feel to be the truth it still feels dishonest, and lacking of depth. Am I lacking the skill, or do I lack the will to go deep enough.
What follows may be the worst writing I ever do, but it will be an exercise to create something of pure honesty. No edit’s, no censor, just an attempt at getting honest.
Let’s get this over with.
Right now, at this very second, I’m staring at the blank white walls in an apartment I can’t afford. My wife, and roommate pay the bills now that I’m unemployed. The walls betray me, a constant reminder of persistent failure.
I’ve been out of work now for exactly 19 days, which doesn’t sound like a long time, but the shame grows every day. Putting in application, after application, after application, and making no progress.
I have more searches on indeed than a teenager does for internet porn. I’m addicted to looking at the jobs, to the rush of talking myself into being the person that can do it, but I’m not. Deep down I know, no job will ever be able to make me happy.
My skills are limited on a professional (day job)basis, hell, that’s why I’m on Medium. To gain some exposure, and at the very least some proof that I know how to type. At my core I feel like a pitiful excuse for a writer by the end of every day, a shared experience for many creatives, but one that’s hard to debunk.
The reality is, I’ve left my apartment only a handful of times in the past few weeks. Going outside seems pointless, there’s no purpose in leaving, but at the same time I’m starting to feel like I don’t exist. My life is being lived in Wal-Mart pajama’s, any sense of progress on pause. My ambitious 18 year old self would be disappointed, maybe even disgusted.
I’m so ashamed by my current status that I want to crawl under a rock and disappear at the idea of making this a public post. All the ambition in my mind just isn’t translating into results. So many failed jobs, so many abandoned novels, and broken business plans.
Envy has become a poison. I see friend’s, friend’s like me, other trans people succeeding and living happy lives. Their finances are in order, their careers are on fire, they’re getting married, owning homes, and taking vacations. They are everything I’m not, and my wife has to pay the consequences for my failure. I don’t deserve her.
At the root of all this I know I can do better . . . be more, but I don’t know how. Or is it that I’m so afraid to fail in the area that means so much to me, that I use fear as a cover for not putting myself out there. I’m not afraid for potential thousands of stranger’s to read this honestly, but the idea of people I know seeing it scares me to a near panic.
I’ve posted two articles so far, and dutifully shared them on twitter, multiple times, yet only hovered over the Facebook share. I’ve looked up local businesses I could offer Copywriting services to, but made a thousand excuses as to why it won’t work.
Writing is that last thing that I cling to. The one saving grace of my life, and I’m forgoing potential success, even mediocre success to keep the dream alive and avoid failure. I’m so afraid that if this fails too then I’ll give up on my life all together. I’m not suicidal, but only because of an irrational hope that life will one day work out. Without writing, I don’t have that. And now that I’m admitting it I feel the pit growing in my stomach, because I can’t wake up tomorrow and claim I’m doing everything I can.
Now that I’m admitting it, I might actually have to try. Or I can slip back into blissful, painful, shameful ignorance and keep failing by default the rest of my life. Eventually I’ll just end up homeless, alone, and die without the expensive medications that keep me alive. And sadly, that’s a real debate.
I always said that I wouldn’t be like my father, and the rest of that side of the family who live in bubble’s of ignorance. I’ve prided myself on working on my issues, and not letting my past pain’s consume me, but the truth is I am exactly the same as my father and grandfather.
Starting project’s and not finishing them. Considering business plan’s and either not acting on them, or giving up without a whole hell of a lot of fight. Blaming my failure’s on anything from discrimination to bad luck, when I’ve known damn well that I’m the reason everything in my life fails. And I’ve merely created a bubble of delusion that separate’s me from the real pain. The pain that because I’ve refused to act, and quit on so many things that could have kept me from this position I’ve already failed on everything I set out to do in life.
It’s not too late to change that, but I’m probably going to go cry myself to sleep now. Like I said no edits, and a promise to push the publish button despite the instant regret.
