I should be in the habit of writing everyday- that’s what almost every accomplished author claims. Write all the time, write when you don’t have inspiration, write to improve, write write write
But it’s just hard. It’s hard to write when I’m constantly hungry and battling depression and my brain is just fighting me all the time. It’s hard to write when I genuinely have nothing to write about. And I can never tell if it’s because I just don’t have anything, or because I keep limiting myself like this. The last attempt I created, I restricted myself to completely original stories (which didn’t quite work because half of them were fanfiction with the names omitted) and now… fuck, I don’t even know what I’ve been planning to write here. It’s become a diary without me meaning it to be. And it becoming a diary is dangerous, because I never do anything. I have nothing going on in my life right now. That’s why I’m writing. That’s why I escape. I have all these nice clothes in my closet that might never be worn; I have makeup that I rarely apply. I’m just sitting here in my room day after day, completely isolated from friends or family. And no, this feeling of isolation has been going on since way before I quit my job. The only difference was that I got to leave the house and get harassed for some odd hours a week.
A little about my daily life. My dad is at work during the day and doesn’t really come home in time to do anything else. My mom is either asleep or out somewhere, or in her room rewatching the same 30 seconds of TV over and over and slowly driving me insane. And look- I don’t mind that my parents aren’t knocking down my door insisting that I hang out with them. I don’t mind being left to my own devices.
What I do mind is being alone. Constantly. Having days that bleed into each other, a bedroom window blocked out so I’m left unaware of time’s passing. Not wanting to use my Lyft funds to go out anywhere because who knows, a job might call me back and I need to be able to get there for interviews (and besides, I’d still be going alone anyway) My only friend being 30 minutes away, too far to come visit.
At least in the city there’d be a plethora of interesting places to go, new people to meet. I could go to museums, art galleries, coffee shops. There’s a huge ferris wheel in the middle for crying out loud. Here, in suburbia, there’s nothing. I just looked it up and in this area, all the points of interest are parks. Parks and movie theaters.
I’m a bit worried about the possibility that I’m hyping up the city so much in my head but, when I actually get there, it’ll just be more of the same. I’ll just stay in my apartment, even more alone than before, especially if I keep up this dream of working from home. I won’t actually go out and meet people, or make new friends, or do anything different than I already am.
…but I don’t want to think that. I want to have hope. I want to believe that there’s a better future waiting for me there. This plan is something that finally makes sense to me. Something that I really want to do.
I just don’t know how to get there.