June 29, 2018 – A Therapy Session with Myself

Writing a book is a lot harder than I thought it would be.  And I want to write several books.  But I gotta finish one first.

I know, I know.  Everyone keeps telling me to just sit down and write for at least 15 minutes a day.  I know, I know. You just have to do it.  Let go of all your doubts and write.  But dude, easier said than done.

I can’t even write a single blog post without getting distracted by the latest Netflix binge or even social media.  The deadliest of weapons that one.  Social media, that is.  It’s deadly, I tell ya.  It could either be super inspiring and motivating or it could cost you your mental/emotional sanity or it could quite possibly take the day right under your nose. I’m trying really hard to not compare or be jealous/envious of the lives I see on social.  I’m trying really hard not to endlessly scroll through food, baby, cat videos in the search page. I’m even trying really hard not to procrastinate by watching “only one” show/movie on Netflix, which unfortunately turns into several hours of nonstop TV.

I know what to do and what not to do and what I should be thinking and what I shouldn’t be thinking, but the feeling is already there, you know? The doubt already is implanted in my head and heart and sometimes I can push through it, but most of the time, it doesn’t fizzle out, it lingers, taunting me at every turn.  It blurs my vision for what I hope to see in the future. I don’t want to make excuses for physical pain, emotional/mental pain, or even my worst procrastination phases, but I’m living passively when I’m not doing the things I’ve chosen for myself.  And I realize that.  Believe me. I know because I can feel my heart breaking whenever I wake from my zombie-like state of living but not really alive sensation.  My world spins.  I’m confused.  I’m choking on air. I fall into depression for a period and think of suicide, but then I cry internally because how could I ever possibly think that ending my life is the answer to all of my problems? How could I possibly imagine the world is better off without me in it?  I think of my husband, my loved ones, my friends.  I think of the going away party and just how much love I received from all the attendees. I fall into restlessness and I feel hopeless because I don’t know who I am.  I don’t know what I want. I don’t know what career path I should be on. I don’t even have a single clue.

I took this trip because I wanted to find myself.  I wanted to leave Chicago.  I don’t want to return until I figure out my next step.  I was . . . I am hoping that is writing.  I am hoping I have my writing figured out by then.  I am hoping I have my life figured out by the time I return to the States.  I am hoping for some big epiphany to come to me with a light bulb going off inside my head telling me exactly where I need to be, what I need to do, and who I am meant to become. Call it a fantasy.  But maybe I’m a dreamer. I can’t help but dream.

It’s bittersweet every time I think of home.  I think of my mom.  My sisters. My grandmas. My dad. Then I look up at my little golden heart of his ashes and his thumbprint right next to it and feel  . . . . sometimes sad, sometimes happy, sometimes guilty.  Most of the time, I feel at a loss of words.  Sometimes, I can’t believe he is really gone.  I can’t believe he left us.  I really can’t believe it’s almost his first death anniversary. I can’t believe the things that are happening back at home without him, without me.  But I can’t think about that.  I have to be selfish, even though that is one of the hardest things for me to do, especially when it comes to my family.  I have to be selfish, otherwise I’d be caught in the middle of something really messed up, something not even I can fix. Something I wish my dad was alive to see and fix for us.

Since, I’ve been away from home, I haven’t thought of my dad once . . . in a grieving-I’m-so-sad kind of way.  It has always been okay he’s gone, but I know he’s with me type feeling. Today, now that I mentioned about my dad in the above paragraph, tears began to flow.  I miss him.  I really do. I really wish he was still alive. But he’s not.  When problems were happening at home, yes, I was angry with him that he wasn’t here to stop it from escalating, but now I’m just angry about the situation itself.  Take it by experience.  If you take his life and see what happened during his lifetime, don’t you end up learning from his mistakes and his greatest strengths and create a better life for yourself?

I don’t want to go back to the states because dad is gone and with dad gone, I don’t have his company to fall back on.  So I have to finally spread my wings and fly.  Truly and Passionately shine. I never wanted it in the first place.  Sure, I wanted to see it succeed.  Sure, I wanted to help him in any way that I could. But he’s not here anymore.  I was in limbo when he was alive, but how am I supposed to stay there, knowing how unhappy I was working there, with him no longer present to hold my hand.  He definitely babied me. Maybe that’s why I feel so lost right now. Maybe I feel like a failure and that’s why I can’t commit to writing what I want to write about.  I can write about this, easily.  Self-Discoveries. I’m an open book. Because I write with such honesty, I guess.

Back to writing a book – I learned from a movie that I recently watched on Netflix, called “Set it Up” and I think I read this tip somewhere too, probably some writing book . . . First step to get out of a really bad rut, a.k.a. writer’s block, is to write a really bad first draft.

But where to start?  Do I just pick a book I want to write and write horribly on it? But what if it turns out I hate it and and hate that idea and never want to rewrite a better version of it?  Maybe I should choose a completely different topic or start a new story altogether?

I’ve noticed in my creative writing classes or any class I took where I wrote creatively, I would write something and it would take all day and all night, like I would pull an all-nighter to finish a story, and it turns out pretty damn good, I think . . .  mostly because all my all-nighter creations got an A on, and I’ve NEVER gotten A’s on papers before, so that was like holy mother of pearl, I found something I’m good at in high school/college.  Should I just do that?  Pull an all-nighter to write a downright terrible masterpiece that I could toss over my shoulder without looking back?  But writing a novel seems more complicated. As in time-consuming . . .  Should I be writing short stories instead?  See this is my thought process. I think wayyyy too much.

I just gotta go with my gut.

& literally, just do it.

rebeccanne

but still, I don’t know where to begin….

 

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