https://music.youtube.com/watch?v=riymThc8_xg&si=fjtZyemhnrZV7bug
I make attempts to keep the past out of the forefront of my mind. I try not to think of who I was in the past, or what life was like before my mental illness fully manifested and began to dominate my thinking. The fact is, today I do like myself for the most part, living in recovery. Am I fully happy or accepting of who I am today? No, I am not, but self-acceptance is a moving target.
I have been trying to recover the parts of myself I’ve lost. Most importantly the creative part. I was a truly prolific reader and writer in the past, as my internet history will attest. I’m not really sure what happened, except to conclude that after multiple brutal personal disasters, the creative drive was beaten out of me by life itself. I’ve tried to write on many occasions since I got sober, often on this blog. I’ve written social media posts. It has always felt like an interminable grind. Not authentic, not real, but completely forced. Even worse, I can’t say that I believe anything I’ve written in the past 12 years is any good.
This issue has been brought into perspective recently by the fact that I just spent my 8th stint in the mental hospital. There were recreational therapy sessions during this stay, where I painted, listened to music, or drew. I found these activities pretty enjoyable, even If I had no skill at making hand-drawn art. I always knew my skill was with writing but now it feels like squeezing blood from a stone.
I grieve the loss of my creative drive and abilities. I have fought like hell to get to where I am today. Yet, going back to the hospital once again feels like a complete defeat. Worse still, I don’t know what I want, or won’t admit it to myself, and I don’t know who I am. I have tried to be all things to all people, and I’m tired. I’m so fucking tired.