Where’s My Worth

I haven’t been able to write at all since my last blog post.

The blockage has been full of anxiety and fear, procrastination and excuses.

“I don’t have a stable job yet, I must have that before I can waste my time creating without the promise of money”

“I don’t have the right environment yet, how can I dive into the trauma without feeling like I won’t come back again?

“I don’t have enough time, because all of this job hunting and these side projects are more important than seeking closure with my story”

And every excuse written has taken up a cotton wad of space in my brain, letting soft sparks of electric anxiety paralyze my movements; keeping me from the keyboard.

Even writing this is a rebellion against these electric sparks.

I told myself I would not write another blog post until I had written for my book. I could not allow it.

And the voice within my head yells louder than any other sign or institution of authority I have ever encountered. It festers and woes me into tying myself with sharp knots down to my deadlines. It convinces me that distractions are the answer, and to bid my time with fun and play until it is time to be productive. And because this voice carries both of these messages- messages of threat and care- I become confused and trapped in the headlights, careening into a state of motivation stalled like a lost doe.

I have been observing this procrastination warily, as I am never one to wait for action. It’s not in my character. I am much more impulsive than cautious, and anything internally halting my path from completing my tasks always warrants worry. I know that once it grows to this size, the disease it is planting has roots growing far past my ambition.

And so I’ve raked the grounds of my mind meticulously, mindfully, erratically, and impatiently. I’ve paced over and over the same spot, stubbing my toe and then kicking back down on the dirt, packing it harder in place as a way to smite and punish myself for each day that passes without words passing from my fingers.

And I have grown resistant and weary all at once, after doing these actions so many times over. I have decided to give into dismantling one of my self-initiated rules- and to begin writing again, regardless of the purpose.

To allow myself to at least voice these fears and supposed failures I have felt- And to pray that no one responds with overwhelming positivity or advice. Because the worst thing you can do to someone who has lost their faith is to bring your blind faith to the table for bargaining. To expect someone still in the midst of their struggles to clearly see and agree that there is a light at the end of the tunnel, and that there is hope for them because there is hope for all. I hope to never be as self-serving or naive as that, should I ever encounter someone facing the same steps that I have taken. Once I get past this process of stubbing my toe and packing my dirt, I refuse to tell another experiencing the same that it simply “gets better” and that “there is still time.” These are words wittled by those who still, time and again, will push the blanket of positivity over a wound needing much more real and raw care than catch-all affirmations.

These are the wounds that need realistic advice met at the roots of the procrastination, of the worry, of the shame.

As I have gotten to my knees to pull back these layers I have found, (as with all roots of procrastination,) a fear of failure. But much worse than that, a fear of causing harm to both myself and others. A fear of undigging and displaying the past in a light that will be detrimental to those involved, and understanding that this sense of survivors guilt will always play a part in my story.

In accepting the depth and horror of what I am preparing to write, I must accept that my excuses are much more than shallow veils of easily solved issues. They are legitimate concerns from a metacognitive mind that understands writing this book could send me back into a regression; that I will need resources to help me pull myself back out.

I will not be able to write my story until I have a safe place that is uninterrupted, and dislocated from the location of my traumas. I will not be able to afford or find space like such until I have a job that can give me the freedom of money and ability to travel. And I won’t have such a job until the universe aligns with me “just right.”

I have found these excuses and fostered them well into a source of self-battery, bruising every attempt I make at writing or moving forward with composing my story. But at least I have found the integrity and ability to write, period. Even if it isn’t “for the book.” Even if it isn’t weighed with the meaning of a longer piece. Even if it isn’t poetic justice for an overdue apology to self- and even if others will still try to wishwash my worries away with outstanding optimism that makes me cringe.

This post in itself is a win in itself, against the pressing forces of my mind telling me that if it’s not perfect it’s not worth it. That If I do not have a job, have my own studio, have control of my time, that I am not worth it. That my story is not worth it. That my work is not worth a thing.

I’m trying very hard to overcome these thoughts that still send paralysis as answers to my anxieties in my brain. I’m still trying very hard to not beat myself up over my own idea of success, and I’m still trying very hard to not allow other’s self-endowed wisdom of success to shoot me down, back into the dirt of my roots.

I am still trying very hard to not align my sense of worth with my productivity, with numbers, with capitalism. I am still trying very hard to remember that the point of all of this was to help others- regardless of the money it does or does not make me. I am still trying very hard to learn how to validate myself in my efforts.

I’m still trying, trying, trying,

to find and understand my worth in a world that wants my story dead.

I forget that I am fighting a larger battle with a larger story that I wish to tell, and that this may take years to overcome. But it will be done. Before I die.

Because I can’t imagine dying without having proven to the world that my story, and our stories, are worth listening to.

We are fucking worth it, and so am I.

May you be well, May you be happy, May you be free from suffering

One thought on “Where’s My Worth

  1. You put a lot of pressure on yourself. You are an amazing, strong, resilient, creative woman but no one can be all those things all of the time. Don’t forget to be patient with yourself, you deserve it! I believe you are an unstoppable force of good. So much love!


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