The process of writing has always been a passion of mine. I write for many reasons, sometimes to get a weight off my chest, other times to offer bits and pieces of insights to relatable topics.
In that my experiences are a human one, I do not feel the need to cut short the bluntness of my tone; as a writer, my intent must be as clear and precise as regular conversation.
My experiences have been anything but fictitious. I cannot refute the rawness of my journey so far and I would not have that any other way. I’ve learned not to be polite about the things that I do in my life, both within the scene and outside of it, and I cannot foresee myself glossing it over for anyone especially not for the sake of approval.
The first step in addressing a problem is realizing that there is one.
I’ve been having problems. I’ve been struggling to write at increasingly larger intervals. My savings are slowly draining away. I beat myself up over the fact that I could be more productive. I give up too easily. I don’t take the time and effort to reach out as often as I did before.
You could argue that this may be an irrefutable sign of depression. I’ve considered that as one likely scenario; all writers, at least the most passionate kind, are victims of their own conscience.
I’m just someone who’s trying to be a writer. I’m not sure if I’m that good of one to begin with.
I don’t enjoy being vulnerable especially at times such as these. I’m still self-conscious enough to hesitate apparently. The details of what I’m going through isn’t extraordinary – the mundane details, the lack of excitement, and the loneliness of it all.
By the latter I don’t mean some soul-crushing existential crisis – I’m not the type of person to even remotely entertain that line of thought. Suicide is a topic that I take very seriously. The thought would never cross my mind. Unless, you know, it’s some horrible incurable body-wasting terminal illness; in which case, just fucking shoot me.
I may be considered an adult but the last time I checked, I’m still a free-thinking individual let alone a writer. Here let me drop the mic for a second: Fuck money. Fuck the system. Damn right, I’m upset about the lowest common denominator: I live in fucking Vancouver.
As a writer, albeit as honest as possible, the following sentence is hard for me to say:
I feel weak.
I feel like I’ve wasted a lot of time trying to tell myself that I’m going somewhere when I’ve only written incoherent scribbles and notes for months.
I lack the education and the experience to sustain a proper job. I’ve been lacking the motivation to address that problem and gradually, inevitably, it’s becoming an increasingly serious issue.
Recently I’ve had to invest in a large portion of my finances to fix an issue with my home. Money that I’d been saving on for what was supposed to be a trip to KinkFest this upcoming weekend. Money that was meant to sustain me while I searched for school courses, maybe even buy myself more time to keep writing.
I have no idea what’s happening next.
Truth? I’m still human and I do that thing that people do where instead of reaching out for help, they beat around the bush, refuse to trouble the people that care the most. Something about saving face. Maybe something to do with pride and vanity. In my case, it’s the brutal nature of having to be honest with oneself.
I know that I’ve got a large network of friends and family. I know a lot of you have been reaching out to me and words can’t express how grateful I am.
Shout outs to people that give a shit. It’s been tough but deep down inside, perhaps naively, perhaps stubbornly, I could use a bit of help such as advice. I’m not looking for charity (though appreciated) so keep your money and donations.
Rest assured, I’m still trekking on. I’m not quitting. Stat Vexillum, motherfuckers, I’m still right here.
I guess there’s still some things about me won’t ever change.