Stuck between thought and action.
Where I know what I need to do, but the intense feelings of fear, rejection, hopelessness hold me hostage.
What is it to be brave?
Going to the bar with social anxiety? It's been done.
Going to the library not wanting anyone to see you? Also been done.
Making a meal with no skills and fear of messing it up? Done that, too.
Creating something your heart needs to break open for? There's the problem.
I have no WANT to do the "work" involved. I need it out of me so badly, what is so hard about sitting down by myself and doing it?
"At least I'm alive."
I'm a perfectionist. I don't want first drafts, I want final drafts. I don't want garbage to sift through, I want gold the first time.
Not realistic.
Reality isn't what I thought it would be. More challenge and disappointment than I was ready for.
My brain doesn't want change. Change is too hard. Easier to give up and play videogames. Easier to be unremarkable and die a nobody.
Then why am I stuck if that is the worst fate I can imagine? The pain of being nobody should be enough to get me to do what I really want. I WANT to write. I WANT to make/edit videos. I WANT to sing and create music.
The FEAR.
What is this fear?
Not wanting to be seen or heard when I do anything, especially when I'm still learning. Not even starting anything, being convinced it will be garbage and forgotten.
I'm stuck in a box my brain has created with intense fear.
How do I "just do it" when I know myself well enough to predict how I'll feel and what I'll do. Temporary relief with no intention of finishing the project. How can I finish a project when I've never been able to before? I lose interest. Another ambition squandered.
I need help. But I don't accept help.
Fear.
I don't know how to stop crying long enough to fight through the shame I put on myself for asking for help to begin with.
Fear.
I know people see me as inept already, how could appearing weak be anything unexpected? Why do I put a magnifying glass on myself when everyone else exists anonymously?
Fear.
Always fear.
Crippled by the stress of dealing with unpleasant feelings. I avoid because who WANTS tightness in their chest and to cry in public?
I need so badly to just let myself exist. Just BE for once.
But I'm never doing enough.
Just existing is not making any change.
Just existing doesn't get me to write all of a sudden.
Just existing doesn't make me face my fears and leave the house.
FUCKING FEAR.
Fear has me stuck.
I'm supposed to be here, right?
"At least I'm alive."

Stuck (?),

imp. & p. p. of Stick.

 

© Webster 1913.


Stuck, n. [Cf. 1st Stoccado.]

A thrust.

[Obs.]

Shak.

 

© Webster 1913.

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