I have always wanted to be a writer, to write my own books one day, but lately, I’ve been thinking, how on earth am I supposed to be a writer when I’m so depressed?
I can’t even willingly sit down and write. I can’t even sit down to blog. (I’m having so much trouble right now). I have a journal and I haven’t written in it in weeks. I feel so guilty. I always get this overwhelming feeling of anxiety and lethargic that cuts my stream of motivation.
I have read and been told that I can channel my emotions through different forms of art and I have but sometimes it’s like what’s the point? No one’s ever going to get it. I’ll never get my message across.
One of my favourite English professors told our class a story about this professor who was a writer and an alcoholic. He was depressed and committed suicide by jumping off a bridge and made sure he would hit the cement.
A lot of people thought he killed himself because he was an alcoholic and depressed, but it was a totally different reason that blew my mind.
He said the most common reason why many artists, writers being under that umbrella, kill themselves is because they could not express themselves anymore or fail to connect with their audience because writing, music or art was their only connection with their audience and only outlet. Because they could not find a way to express their feelings of the sadness or agony they were entangled in anymore, they kill themselves.
And I guess that’s the point – no one will ever understand you as an artist or writer. You are hidden. A writer is never seen. Great art is when the artist is never seen but the art itself. That’s either something good or sad.
But to bring it back, I wrote something.