thanking myself & other self-help

Now, it’s possible that I may be over-inflating the stakes here. After initially fearing that I could not even buy a domain name, I did that. After regretting the $10 purchase of the domain name, I decided to try to write every day on the blog since I’m paying for the use of the template anyway. I have done that, with perhaps one exception so far.

I have been doing what I set out to do. However, I feel terrible about it because my writing is not excellent, my blog has no readers, and my life has not changed immeasurably. I have not become a highly-regarded screenwriter of feminist stories and social commentary.

I keep missing the initial point though. I did what I asked myself to do, but I keep saying it is not enough because all of these external rewards did not come rushing towards me at the speed of light. Do I seek out readers? No. Can a person choose to change her life immeasurably overnight or even in a year? Probably not at least in a positive way; downward spirals might happen in a year, but climbing upward is harder than sliding down. Have I ever written a screenplay or any story? Um, well, no.

I’m trying to work out here which aspects of rejection in my life have been concrete and which have been imagined. When I say imagine, I’m talking about instances in which I tell myself that that the world is “telling” me something permanent and unchangeable about me. That something is almost always super insulting: that I’m pathetic or a loser or unloveable. You get the point.

I cannot stress enough to myself how significant it is that I was able to start this blog and write here even when the posts are one sentence. It shows that I am interested and that I am trying. Part of my motivation for writing this today is that I felt so terrible last night when it was nearly midnight and I started writing. I felt so bitter towards myself for having watched Youtube videos and documentaries (yet again) that showed other people working hard and trying, but I was simultaneously procrastinating on my own dream to make something of my writing and of myself. Perhaps, more accurately, I am just trying to write something, anything. I’m trying to learn something about myself. Something, in this case, that is not super insulting and permanent and unchangeable.

Thank you, self.

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