I feel like I have a problem because I can’t write unless I’m possessed by a demon.

I have really bad anxiety about never amounting to anything. In the before times it stopped me from ever doing anything, ever. Then it stopped me from stopping all the things I picked up habitually. Then it stopped me from not pouring my life and soul into the fist thing that I could find. And now, again, it’s stopping me from doing anything, ever.

I find it impossible to write or even think about writing when I’m in a good mood. I feel like there are strands of wire dangling from the ceiling of my skull and there’s a little man jumping, over and over, trying to reach just one, any, of them. And the only time he ever gets close, is when I’m depressed and the walls start to cave in and the sky starts to fall. Like, even now, I’m doing it. I’m literally inducing depression in order to sit here and write for as far as I can tell no good fucking reason. It’s one am, I have to be at work in seven hours, and here I am writing a fucking screed about needing to be depressed to write. This is bullshit. It’s not even good. It’s self important bullshit, which is even worse. Really, here’s my problem. I want this.

I want to be a writer very badly. I want to say that I’m trying so hard to make it true, but I can’t say that because it’s a lie. I’m not trying. What I’m doing, really, is telling myself that I’m trying and feeling better about the total and complete lack of effort that I put into anything in my fucking life and now here I sit, typing away getting mad at nothing.

The next post I make is going to be a fictional short story instead of an unhinged publicly posted journal entry. I’m sorry I didn’t do this right. I know it’s late. You have permission to hit me.