Update: Writer’s Block Still Sucks

I’ve had writer’s block for so long that I’m afraid to write, but I need to write. I feel like I’m fighting a war against some invisible asshole sucking all my writing powers out of me. Sometimes I win a battle, and get like, one post in, but overall, I have been losing this war.

It’s been four years since I was diagnosed with PTSD. Over 4 years. I think back to the days when I would write every day, when I would fall asleep with a pen still in my hand, when I needed to write..

I still need to write. That hasn’t changed. What has changed is my mental health. I almost wrote, “And capability.” But has my capability really changed, or is it just temporarily suppressed?

I can feel the grammatical and syntactical errors. I still know they’re there. It just feels like I have to start back from the bottom, and build my way up again. Like I’m back in sixth grade, knowing that I want to be a writer someday, but not really believing I could do it. If I could bring myself to practice enough– but can I?

I know I’ve used the letter “I” too many times. But another part of me thinks, what if it’s more like a plug, what if I can’t write because I have too much to write, and don’t know where to start… if I just start somewhere, the flow will be messy at first, but I will eventually remember how to control it.

Right?

I’ve had a few new thoughts on it today. One is that my writer’s block has really been going on for much longer than four years. Maybe it hit me in stages. The first stage was when I started reading less after getting kicked out of college, because, well, the trauma of getting kicked out of school just killed reading for me. Killed it.

Killed it. And I think that pain is mostly still just sitting there, buried, untouched. It takes so many years just to be able to vocalize something like, “Why didn’t my professors think I was worth more than being thrown out like garbage? Why did they kick me out instead of helping me move forward? Am I really that un-fixable?”

Nursing school, well, that’s complex, it could get it’s own fucking book. And probably will someday, if I live long enough to write all this shit down.

The suicidality is part of the struggle. It’s part of the block. Sometimes I tell myself, I have to at least live long enough to write my pain down, like Sylvia Plath did. I have to at least stay alive long enough to write down all my reasons for needing to die.

That sounds so dark, because I wrote it unfiltered. I ask myself all the time, what would you write if you weren’t scared? And that last paragraph was only one of hundreds of answers.

Dark. I am dark now.

I think back to the therapist who said, “Don’t become your PTSD.” And you know why she can fuck off? Because she made it sound like a fucking choice. As if, if I were to come down with severe, complex PTSD, it would be my fault, or something I chose.

This only led to me trying to convince myself that I didn’t really have PTSD… that I could just shred all the paperwork and pretend it never happened. Instead of addressing my pain the way I should have, I repressed it even more. It was incredibly harmful, and no one should ever say a thing like that to their patient.

I forgot, I was writing about the stages of my writers block. The first stage was reading less. The second stage was giving up my blogging time in favor of online dating, and Yelp, and just, trying to make friends like, in general. I got busy. Writing took a backseat, but I told myself that it didn’t, because I was doing so well on Yelp.

I was Elite on Yelp for 7 years. I didn’t blog during any of that time. Yelp and Yelp Talk became my medium, and I lost all my finesse, and purpose, and now here we are, and my PTSD got so bad that I asked Yelp to delete my profile, and I kinda suck at writing now. But still.

Writing is the only thing left that I’m sure of. Even with it torn away, even laying under the sheets for months at a time, years at a time, wondering, what is wrong with me, why can’t I write… I still can’t shake the feeling that I’m meant to. That it would be so powerful if I could just rise back up out of all this poverty and pain, and write it all down.

If I could just write out the things I’ve been through, and how and why some things were wrong, and what needs to change. If I could just get the strength to put the truth into words. To stand up against all of the abuse I’ve endured, all the domestic violence and online bullying, if I could just write it all down, the way that I used to…

It is just so, so much. Where would I even start?

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