I seem to have hit a paralyzing writers block. So many things to say, ideas tripping over one another, so many thoughts wanting to come to life on the page but unable to form them in any sort of coherent or comprehensible order. I doubt I am making sense, just rambling endlessly, needlessly.
I am often like this. There seems so much to say and no way to begin.
I was going to talk about religion and my beliefs, then I couldn't get to what it was I was thinking. Where was I going with this idea? What had I meant to say?
Or perhaps I was thinking of my outburst last night? My anger and frustration that has become dissipated with the weariness of time.
Maybe even the rotten day I've had, how I will never understand why people cannot show each other basic civility and courtesy. What ever has happened to respecting people? Why do others seem to feel it is a acceptable to be rude when it is so unjustified?
It all appears a jumble now. Nothing makes much sense.
I wonder if I think too deeply sometimes. Can you over-analyse a situation? I think I do. I stop to ponder for too long, to dwell on my perceived shortcomings and failures of character. I will play over and over again in my mind a telephone conversation I had at work today knowing that what I said was right, yet seeking to justify it to myself, worried that I really have got it wrong and I'll be found out. But what then? Its not like I am a brain surgeon, peoples lives do not depend on my decisions. It is not life and death. And besides I know I was right.
Why do I have these terrible anxieties? It comes and goes. Weeks will go past and I will feel confident in myself and assured of my purpose. Then every so often, it crumbles and I feel the other me coming forth. The frightened, desperate and lonely me who can barely function. The one who sees myself as valueless and despairing. I don't like that version of me. That is my bad side, the needy, desperate and ugly me.
Then when I think of all the bad things I try to remember what I like in my life and how I would not be me if I changed any of it. I know I am far from perfect but for all those failings I am still me and most of the time I am that nicer version of myself. I can do it. I can be like that all the time, if only I could let go of my demons, those voices in my head that tell that I will never be truly happy, that I will never find love. Those demons that bring out that other me, that frightened, desperate and lonely me. The me I hate and wish would go away.