I am a failure.
This year, I'm turning 36; jobless, homeless, friendless, and by all means, practically lifeless. I'm physically (as far as I can tell) healthy. But my brain keep tuning off people, usually people 'trying to help'. Because I am scared. Because this little voice in the back of my head keep telling me that those people want something in return of their 'help'. So far, that little voice had been proven right time and time again: Nobody is out to help just because. They would want something in return, and most likely, that something is the one thing I cannot give.
I think I'm depressed. It sounds like such a puny excuse, I've been battling the fact for so long typing it down scared the bejeezus out of me. I keep turning away anything that is supposed to be good for me: a job offer, a friendship offer, an offer of kindness - everything. I keep returning to that little voice, the last barrier I have for.. I don't know what.
I keep declaring that I hate making excuses. Yet I keep making excuses using logic. Nonexistent logic.
People around me knows just how much I *don't* talk about myself, my feelings, my aspirations, my dreams. It's not like they don't try to make me open up. I just can't. I don't trust them. I have never showed anything I wrote to anyone in real life. The last time I did that was in highschool, and the adult world proved the Little Voice right by saying I was 'subversive' - all because I wrote a fiction that has a kissing scene in it.
I want people to read my writings. But I'm scared that they will hate it. Or worse: use it against me, somehow. At least that's what Little Voice said. Like I've reiterated, it has the penchant of being right & broke my fragile little heart.
Drama queenery - that's what I thought of people who 'shares' their respective woes, one perpetually trying to out-do the other. I have my dramas, by all means. And I don't want to tell anyone about it. Why? What are they going to do about them that would make me feel: a. better, or b. justified, or c. resolved?
I need to be able to look for a future. This obviously will happen to me, probably even sooner than I hoped, considering *my* mother is 67. In a way, though, I hope I would not live to see the day. But the problem with this 'healthy' body of mine made it a little more difficult to think I'd share the same fate as my namesake: my mom's mother, who died at 37 of liver cirrhosis. Like my late brother, I have no long-term dream. I never aspired to 'be a ballerina!' or 'a rock star' or 'doctor' or anything like that. My brother, after intense prodding, said he wanted to be an archaeologist. Well he's right where he wanted now, digging the earth from 6' under.
I don't know what I want to be, other than writer. I've been 'criticizing' a writing of a friend of mine. I want somebody to reciprocate the deed. Maybe he will. But I don't know how *I* would react on his critics. I also need to somehow finish the ideas of plots that's crawling around in my head. Also need to finish at least one of them to make them comprehensive and readable. And I can't. I can't finish what I started. I can't find the willpower to make it happen. I don't have the encouragement to get it to happen..
I wish someone would actually read my writings, put out an honest but not discouraging critic on it.. So I can actually move on and keep my muse fueled.
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