To the author (and to the poster!): Thank you. I couldn't have found this at a better time. I'm right now (privately) writing about things of a very similar nature and this has made me indescribably inspired and grateful. I know a lot of depressed people feel the same, but I have to repeat the cliché that it's as if he's writing about my life.
> That's why I love writing- it feels like I'm talking to someone who gets me.
Beautifully said. I keep ignoring this lesson for long stretches of time until my mind is in such a messy state that I sort of instinctively can't do anything else but write and write and write, which I've been doing for a few days now, nonstop, after months (years?) of self-neglect. The contents are usually very similar, repetitive, self-deprecating and apparently unproductive, but more often than not I come out of it reinvigorated and more hopeful about the future, and sometimes with slightly less messy thoughts as a bonus.
I've wanted to start a blog since I was a teenager and be as open about my thoughts and feelings as the author of this post is, but I still haven't gotten over the fear of judgment about letting my existence, let alone my boring, dumb, coward, pathetically self-loathing self, be available to an unboundedly large audience of complete and potentially hostile strangers. The voices in my head are right now telling me: “Almost no one cares about what you have to say. Of those who do, many will care only to the extent that they can use it to ridicule you, or worse; and, if people like that ever find you, it's all over.”
I guess this comment is, if anything, a gesture of appreciation for this person's courage to be vulnerable. But it's also a painful challenge against these voices.
They're now begging me not to post this comment, or to delete it as soon as possible. They're screaming, telling me I know I will regret posting this.
> That's why I love writing- it feels like I'm talking to someone who gets me.
Beautifully said. I keep ignoring this lesson for long stretches of time until my mind is in such a messy state that I sort of instinctively can't do anything else but write and write and write, which I've been doing for a few days now, nonstop, after months (years?) of self-neglect. The contents are usually very similar, repetitive, self-deprecating and apparently unproductive, but more often than not I come out of it reinvigorated and more hopeful about the future, and sometimes with slightly less messy thoughts as a bonus.
I've wanted to start a blog since I was a teenager and be as open about my thoughts and feelings as the author of this post is, but I still haven't gotten over the fear of judgment about letting my existence, let alone my boring, dumb, coward, pathetically self-loathing self, be available to an unboundedly large audience of complete and potentially hostile strangers. The voices in my head are right now telling me: “Almost no one cares about what you have to say. Of those who do, many will care only to the extent that they can use it to ridicule you, or worse; and, if people like that ever find you, it's all over.”
I guess this comment is, if anything, a gesture of appreciation for this person's courage to be vulnerable. But it's also a painful challenge against these voices.
They're now begging me not to post this comment, or to delete it as soon as possible. They're screaming, telling me I know I will regret posting this.
But I won't be listening to them today.