Trying not to stay silent.
No one here reading this would know that when I was younger, I wanted to write. I wrote a lot, almost everything that came in to my mind. I was alone a lot as a child, and writing was my way of dealing with all that was going on in my life. I wrote fiction, grand adventures involving fantastical creatures and horror stories filled with revenge, and non-fiction about how I saw what was going on. I wrote poetry and even attempted a song lyric or two.
Now? Now I have trouble writing comments. I stumble over expressing myself, filled with fear and self-doubt. Somewhere along the way, my dream of being a writer, of sharing what I was feeling so eloquently that others felt it too, it was crushed. My confidence in so many things was shattered. I can hear the voices in my head, telling me how no one will read it, or it has been done by other people who are a thousand times more eloquent than I am.
My opinions on controversial things also get swallowed. I want to discuss current events, politics, feminism, my atheism, but I start to write something and I almost tremble. I delete so much of what I write, let it vanish in to the void. Sometimes I feel as though I am vanishing in to the void. Why should I write about it? No one cares about my opinion. I tell myself, as I delete yet another comment, yet another tweet, yet another blog.
I'm tired of feeling this way, this lack of value in my own words, in my own thoughts and opinions. Some of it comes from my own history, which I won't be sharing at the moment. Maybe, in the future, I can talk about my childhood. Some of it is seeing the overwhelming amount of people on the internet who work at silencing anyone they don't agree with. Some of it knowing there are over 7 billion people in the world. I am so far beyond special as to be insignificant.
When I think about it, I want to smack myself. As someone interested in history, every perspective is helpful. If we had more journals, more of the inner thoughts and day-to-day lives of people from so long ago, it would give us so much information. So, why am I not helping? Why am I not adding my voice to this roar?
I'm going to post this, I'm not deleting it, even though every nerve in my body is screaming that I'm being melodramatic, and rehashing what every other person in the world already knows. Because sometimes you need to take that first step, you need to be uncomfortable for a little bit to grow.
Maybe someday I can dream about being a writer again.
Now? Now I have trouble writing comments. I stumble over expressing myself, filled with fear and self-doubt. Somewhere along the way, my dream of being a writer, of sharing what I was feeling so eloquently that others felt it too, it was crushed. My confidence in so many things was shattered. I can hear the voices in my head, telling me how no one will read it, or it has been done by other people who are a thousand times more eloquent than I am.
My opinions on controversial things also get swallowed. I want to discuss current events, politics, feminism, my atheism, but I start to write something and I almost tremble. I delete so much of what I write, let it vanish in to the void. Sometimes I feel as though I am vanishing in to the void. Why should I write about it? No one cares about my opinion. I tell myself, as I delete yet another comment, yet another tweet, yet another blog.
I'm tired of feeling this way, this lack of value in my own words, in my own thoughts and opinions. Some of it comes from my own history, which I won't be sharing at the moment. Maybe, in the future, I can talk about my childhood. Some of it is seeing the overwhelming amount of people on the internet who work at silencing anyone they don't agree with. Some of it knowing there are over 7 billion people in the world. I am so far beyond special as to be insignificant.
When I think about it, I want to smack myself. As someone interested in history, every perspective is helpful. If we had more journals, more of the inner thoughts and day-to-day lives of people from so long ago, it would give us so much information. So, why am I not helping? Why am I not adding my voice to this roar?
I'm going to post this, I'm not deleting it, even though every nerve in my body is screaming that I'm being melodramatic, and rehashing what every other person in the world already knows. Because sometimes you need to take that first step, you need to be uncomfortable for a little bit to grow.
Maybe someday I can dream about being a writer again.
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