Catatonic Paralysis

Writing terrifies me.

I write to materialize the thoughts that I’ve been too afraid to acknowledge with because dealing with my imperfections would mean I would have to admit that I’m not perfect. And that’s scary. It’s easy to think about all my failures and inadequacies. I know that my relationship with men my first year of college wasn’t the most satisfying. I am aware that I could’ve done better my first year of college. But writing down the “why”, the significance, the impact. It scares me. Because putting down on paper that I fucked men out of a warped need to validate my “unconventional” body, for sex was the barometer for acceptance and beauty conflicts with the carefree, no-fucks persona that I created in my head. Putting down on paper that I deliberately entertain the advances of disgusting and depraved men because I don’t want them to feel rejected conflicted with the “fuck-men” chant that I reiterated to my friends through laughs and bravado. Putting down on paper that I have a fear of responsibility because I don’t want people to feel disappointed when I fail in the task that they set up for me conflicted with the “I-don’t-give-a-fuck” about people personality that I crafted for myself.

The person, on page, is never the person I personify in my head. Who I am differs greatly from who I think I am.

And the problem with writing is that once I want to share it (And I do!), the audience is streamlined into understanding the person I am instead of filtering it through the perspective of the person I think I am. The audience gets an uninformed snapshot of who I am that I can’t defend. The powerlessness that arises from being unable to control how people perceive me is stupefying. All of a sudden, my truth becomes a haphazard, 8th grade interpretation of what the conch meant in Lord of the Flies. My vulnerability and honesty becomes a weapon to judge and misunderstand me.

But. I have to be okay with that. To write more and to be better, I, at least, have to let people have the chance to make those inconsequential analysis of my writing (and myself by proxy). And they’re allowed to hate. I need to open myself to criticism and being mediocre because I know this piece needs improvement.

I’m writing this because it’s been two weeks since my last post, and the previous paragraphs were a round-about reason as to why it’s been so long. Fear, insecurity, Inadequacy, Vulnerability, and Honesty. All hold me back. So now you know.