I rarely go to this part of my subconscious.
Mostly because people won’t understand. Heck, I don’t understand it.
People always said that writers went to places where they’d weave their stories from. Beautiful creative places where they could make a hit story with just one wave of their hand.
J. M. Barrie. got Neverland.
I got darkness.
I usually get myself busy so I don’t have to travel to the darkest place of my mind. I read, or study, or do chores-anything to take myself away from this place. I surround myself with people. But when I’ve been stuck in a hospital for five days, it does things to me. It takes me there.
Then the bad thoughts come.
I get suicidal thoughts. Lots of them. Sometimes I’d hold my breath just to see if I could die. I don’t. I don’t usually know why I want to die. I just know I’m not scared of death. I just want to end everything. To end trying to be better when this is all I’ve got. To end trying to please people when I really just want to be myself. To end being trapped in a world where everything was messed up, and everywhere you went there was always more cons than pros. To end being a burden to almost everyone. To end everything. Yeah, that sounds nice.
I slowly get insecure, thinking about what a bad writer I am and how I’d never get famous. How I’d die because I got sick all the time. How I’d never reach my dreams, how everyone secretly hated my writing. I get jealous of younger writers getting their work recognised without even trying so hard, while here I am looking for publishers and agents and people who’d get my work. Everything I’ve achieved has been done with me trying so hard. Nothing ever comes easy for me.
I sometimes remember the times when I got bullied. They’d say bad things about me, and it was easier not to care. But when you bully yourself, you slowly eat yourself inside out. You see all the things wrong about you because you know yourself more than anyone else.
I don’t even know why I’m writing this, but I needed to get this out. To get rid of these terrible thoughts that hinder me from finishing my book, from emailing publishers and promoters, hindering me from reaching my dreams. I do want to get there. I do. But I want to do it my way, because I’m too stubborn. Sometimes I just want to do away, anywhere. Just to see if I could do things on my own. Everyone says I should profit from my writing, but I don’t want that. I write for the sake of writing.
I would cry silently, something I’ve mastered through the years. I cry, making sure I feel every aching pain. I let it out, because when I don’t I hyperventilate. I have the need to talk to someone, but I don’t know who to trust. I’m just afraid that everything will backfire.
This usually comes when something triggers a part of my subconscious that I’ve long decided to keep hidden. Or when I get rejected. Or when I remember something that keeps on happening to me. I hope I don’t scare you all, but I just wanted you to see another side of me. Another side of this struggling writer.
That people aren’t always who they seem to be.