I’m blogging from work right now, which is unusual in itself since our internet was supposed to have gone kaput by last quarter. Since I’m always feeling corporate eyes on me– I do tend to surf with caution. I keep up with Twitter, and that’s about it.
I had one of those emotional crisis moments last night. I had to just sit there and cry because I’ve come to the conclusion that–I don’t like myself very much. There’s no reason for this, as I’ve gone through so much in the last four years in bettering myself and exorcising my manic-demons. I repaired my nature enough to maintain a job outside the creative field; and this job has helped me reacquire patience, respect, and temper my issues with authority. It’s been a struggle, and the payoff has led me to get better at banking, which has led to more hours–which means–less time to write.
I’m crushed by the fact that I never succeeded as a comics writer. My work and my insight led to nothing, but I never had the time to sit and wallow in self-pity. I was too busy reacclimating myself to life outside the creative field; I’m a better person for it–but I’m still defeated. I need to ask myself–am I writing to be successful? I suppose if success is all I was after, then I have no business reaching my goal. It pains me all the same to come to this conclusion, and it hurts inside to think that the talent I have is destined to dry up and shrivel on the vine. Time and state-of-mind are true enemies, but the biggest enemy is…Me. My muse is not damaged, but my writerly-work-ethic, is. I’ve become too fucking lazy to sit down and do the work.
On top of my laziness, I still struggle with esteem issues. Despite all the therapy and the social rewards working has brought me–I still feel like a failure. I can’t stand myself or my place in the world. My weight is dropping, money is being made, my social life grows slowly, and the belligerence is obsolete—so why am I struggling with being, a nobody?
I’m sure by now most reading this have written me off as an entitled asshat who can’t accept the fact that she’s not the special snowflake she always planned to be–and it’s ok for you to think that, because that’s really what I am, and that’s what prompted the manic-volcano to finally erupt last night. I’ll deal, and I can’t self-destruct because I’m a wife and mother and my family needs me. And loves me.
I may never succeed as a writer, but I at least succeeded as a human being. In the end, that’s the only success that’s supposed to matter…other successes are just extra’s not everyone is entitled to.