Updated: Nov 23, 2018
Following on from my last blog "The Sacrifice", which touched on the effects that the sacrifices during my writing journey has had on me, I've been asked to further express my feelings on these 'effects'.
We all have our limits; points in our lives when things become too much and we just want to stop and 'throw it all in'. Throughout my writing journey, this was a feeling that accompanied me on an almost daily basis. I was putting so much pressure on myself to re-live my past, in order to create an accurate record of content to fill the virtual pages of my laptop.
With thanks to my past experiences of failing, and constantly being reminded by my teachers that I was going to be nothing more than another 'drop out' receiving hard working taxpayers money, I would constantly question the content I had created. "...Does this make sense?", "Who am I?", " How will people benefit from my words?" and "Why would anyone want to read my story?..." These thoughts continued to force me to question my own actions.
Writing about my past, I was so intent upon leaving nothing untold. With every keystroke, I would rapidly race through my memory to locate each part of my past that I felt I needed to share. Raw and jumbled, the worlds would come rushing out. At first, it was great, I would think to myself "Wow, what an emotional release, it looks like this was something I needed to do!"
Unfortunately, in time, becoming so involved in what I was writing, I'd started re-living the emotions I was writing about. Completely uncertain, anxious and frequently having panic attacks, I started to wonder if what I was putting myself through to bring this content out onto the virtual pieces of paper within my laptop was actually worth it.
As for the direct effect of what I've sacrificed to get to where I am... I guess on each day that passes I seem to be reminded of or remember days, events, people and places that I ignored, to follow my heart and chase my passion for writing a book. 'The effect' it has on me? It's fucked - excuse my explicit language and poor writing, however, there's no better explanation. I felt selfish (and still do), because of how obsessed I was with my writing.
Even though I could see the impact I was having on the people around me from shutting them out, knowing I was possibly hurting peoples feelings I chose to continue. Day in day out, nothing or no one could stop me. I felt as if the people around me felt they were not important. I felt, to everyone else, the process of writing was nothing, simply not important and because of this I shouldn't have put others in a position to feel worthless because of the choices I’d made.
I constantly wanted to give it all up, delete my words and erase the past few years from my memory, allowing me to be everything the people around me needed me to be: "Present", "Alert", "Around", "Not glued to my laptop or smart device", "Available to have captured these missed special moments over the past two years". To be honest, from what I've put people through, and what I've sacrificed to write this book and continue along my creative path, most days I feel I pushed myself to much in a short period of time. I felt guilty for being obsessed, like a disappointment- worthless within myself.
Until next time.