Writer’s Block


Words aren’t flowing as easily as they used to.

See, when I was getting high or drinking, I could churn out page after page of great thought or nonsense, depending on my mood.  Nothing was premeditated; every thought that I put to paper or typed out was of the moment.  It felt spontaneous and exciting.  My creativity was free to manifest itself as it saw fit.

Now, off booze and at the mercy of my antidepressant medication, I find it harder and harder to communicate thoughts.  My brain feels clogged; there’s some kind of creative obstruction in my brain and every form of expression is coming to a halt.

I want to write more, and I made a commitment to do just that, but as I sober up, it is becoming increasingly difficult.

What happens, especially in the early stages of the drying out process, is the remembrance of every painful fucking thing that has happened in the last decade.  My brain insists on putting together a highlight reel of all of my greatest screw-ups and plays it on-loop in my brain.  And reel-to-reel, this mental montage consists of horrendous shit that I have done to others, and there is no shortage of it.


I’ve done plenty of fucked up shit to people, but my greatest crime to-date is being reckless with the emotions of others, not just one time, but several, hurting many people in the same way.  Now, cutting myself some slack, I have felt genuine affections towards those I’ve hurt.  I don’t think I’ve ever uttered the words “I love you” and not meant them.  Sadly, those affections are short-lived.  What happens is that I fall out of love or lust or whatever just as quickly as I fall into it.  Every connection forged is a swan dive, head first, into a pool of unknown muck.  Some dives are more graceful than others.  Some dives are bellyflops.  Some have great large splashes, while others don’t.  They are chances I’ve taken, and not all of them have scored a 10/10 from the judges.

Those things have been on my mind as of late.  If I could confront them, I would, but I am too cowardly to do so.  It’s not about seeing myself in an unflattering light.  Thanks to depression and an acute lack of self-confidence, I’m no stranger to viewing myself as a piece of shit.  The reality is that I’m fucking scared.  I’m scared of being honest with myself. I’m embarrassed by some timelines overlapping.  I’m afraid of owning up to what I’ve done.

I make myself sound like a monster who has murdered many unsuspecting men and stored the bodies under the floorboards.  In reality, I’m a girl who fell hard and fast, who scared herself with the breadth and depth of her emotions, and ran the other way screaming.

I don’t know if that is a crime worse than murder, but right now, as my emotions bubble to the surface, it sure does feel like it.


Author: Leila

Just another case of arrested development.

One thought on “Writer’s Block”

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