Speaking Volumes

slow-thriller-speaking-volumes


I try to pretend my absence here doesn’t matter. Whenever I think about writing something to post on Slow Thriller I’m just reminded that it’s been so long. I get an overwhelming feeling that I can only liken to that of being faced with the awkward task of replying to a text that someone sent you months ago. There’s no way to make it seem lighthearted or accidental, even though a lot of the time, while not completely accidental, it was never done purposely to hurt someone else’s feelings. My ever defensive mind instantly fires out words to soothe me; ‘who cares if it’s been so long? Just jump right back in, pretend you never left.’ This is a viable option, to pretend I’ve merely stepped out of the room and a few months later, slip back in. No one will notice, nobody will really care. So I upload a post about some film that’s ten years old, that I’ve only just watched and everyone is over but it doesn’t change the fact that my silence does matter. It speaks volumes against my self-discipline and my ability to cope under (life) pressure. While I’ve slowly come to the conclusion that I’m just not one of those people that can consistently churn out writing to a standard that I’m happy with, I still feel like I could be doing more and ultimately, I’m letting myself down. I’m getting very “cry me a river” right now.

I have to admit that life happened. The start of the year was severely bruised and mottled by my angry gangrenous appendix. I wrote a post about it and didn’t upload it because, while it was traumatising for me, I was acutely aware that for medical professionals, dealing with an appendicitis is very routine. It seemed stupid complaining about it so much when there are real people in the world with real problems and illnesses that are so much worse. I know everything is relative, I repeat it all the time, but I just had this weird feeling of making a mountain out of a molehill, even though it felt like my own personal Everest at times. My anxiety was still in turbulence from the grief of last year and this just sent it into overdrive. It spoke more about my mental health and my ability to deal with difficult situations more than anything. I guess this year I’ve been kind of meandering through life. It’s been hard keeping an open mind for the rest of the year when I had such a shitty start to the beginning.

I have been making a lot of effort in terms of my writing aims. I’m a lazy writer and have a definite love/hate relationship that I’ve talked about before. The one thing that didn’t enter my head when I was on the optimistic high of creating New Year’s Resolutions was rejection. Rejection and writing are fairly synonymous with one another and while I would once have felt beaten down by a (fairly standard) rejection email, somewhere within me, I’m handling it better. I kind of wait for the depression to press up against me but it doesn’t. Something I never thought I would say is that rejection might actually be motivating me a little more. I feel so gross for sounding even slightly happy-go-lucky. Really the only shit thing about pitching and being rejected (apart from not being able to write the thing that you want or get the job you were going for) is it becomes pretty exhausting. Sometimes it throws me out of whack for weeks and I stop even trying. I will always maintain that the hardest thing about “chasing your dreams” or whatever is having to find constant motivation. Being your own hype-man 24/7 is incredibly draining. Sure, you can have someone pushing you some of the time, but most of the time, it has to come from your own desire to succeed. My hype-man is incredibly unreliable. Currently, he’s on sabbatical.

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