I don't think my writing goes deep enough. I'm not penetrating the core of what I feel. I have yet to open the valve completely and release all the fury and grief and heartache. But I want to and I'll keep writing until I touch the unspeakable and the unnameable. I think it's the purpose of my life, why I'm alive at all.
I'm being too demure. I'm holding back. I'm being polite and giving in to my insecurities. I'm silencing myself. I'm surrendering to fear. I'm scared of what I contain. I'm scared that it's too much--to messy, too out of control, too ordinary.
I woke up today, wondering what's the point? What is life? What is the meaning? What am I doing here? I can't see the purpose of anything. Why wake up, why keep going through the motions? Why why why?
I reach my breaking point sometimes. I get worn down. Often, I feel worthless and mediocre. As soon as I wake up I want to go back to sleep. I don't shower for days. I don't leave the house. The sunlight burns my eyes. This is the truth of my life right now.
So, yes, I wake up and don't know why I'm here and think it might be better if I wasn't here but I am here. I am surviving. I don't always know how and I feel the thin thread that keeps me connected to life and that could, at any moment, snap, but I hold on.
Why do I get up? Why do I keep going? Something inside me won't let me stop, it whispers that I'm a writer and I have things to create and my words might matter to others and I might have the privilege of making another human being feel a little less alone in this world. So I hold on to that and my mother and the few friends I've been so fortunate to find in the darkness.
I'm crying as I write this because writing and crying are almost the same thing for me. If I don't cry while I'm writing then why am I doing it?
I want writing to be a release, a gush, an overflow. That's what it's always been for me and what it must always be. I can't tame it. It's the one part of me that is wild and not composed.
Every other aspect of my life is defined by control but writing is a glorious free-for-all, a liberating rupture. The words come and come and I never want them to stop. The words save me. The words are me. I am not separate from them. We are one.