It's late in the evening and I'm not feeling all too jolly. About an hour ago I was once again frustrated with my drawing attempts as I had failed to produce anything whatsoever in an entire hour. I decided that it was enough. I am broken.
For months now, my inspiration has been almost nil. I haven't had a single idea that I felt excited about, a single image in my mind that I could form clearly. The vague ideas that I could muster I could not get done well, if at all. I don't know what's happening. I know I need a change, but nothing that I can think of works. Nothing is fun, none of it is interesting, and no part of it works. I am broken.
But this entry is not about that. I am not even certain why I am writing this. Perhaps it is some sliver of righteousness that compels me, or some other form of misguided idea that I've been lying to everyone. It isn't so much that I've been lying to people about this, but rather that I've been too ashamed, too embarrassed about it to talk to anyone about it at all.
As far back as I can remember– even as a very small child, I've had these fantastical daydreams that my mind would like to think up every now and again. They all followed the same kind of idea: that I would be accidentally involved in some kind of grand scheme, or that I would somehow discover something world-changing, something to put me above people. I always dismissed these thoughts as stupid after a brief moment, and as I grew up I became increasingly embarrassed and ashamed of them. Yes, they are mere dreams my mind randomly conjured up, but they are still representative of my personality in some way.
How shallow and utterly pathetic of me to long for such things. How could I ever hope to achieve anything even close to what these dreams were about? I am not good and certainly not exceptional at anything. This simplistic idea of “accidentally being brilliant” disgusts and repulses me so vehemently because it is entirely selfish, egotistical, and worst of all, the only purpose it serves is to fulfil the fantasy of allowing me to look down on people. I have never told anyone about this before– not my friends, not my parents, not even my psychologist. That is the extent of my hatred and disgust of that aspect of myself.
Despite being aware of this severe flaw of my character for such a long time, I don't know if I have improved at all. I still catch myself being spiteful and looking down on people I don't even know. I still catch myself longing to one day make some form of ridiculous, fairy-tale-like breakthrough.
Yet on the other hand I dismiss praise and try not to advertise my projects or myself; in fact, I shy away from publicity or even actively try to alienate people. Often I do this because I feel like I do not deserve attention, that the things I have done are not worthy. I am certain that a part of this feeling exists solely because I am so afraid of this other part of myself that I do not want to allow any of its ridiculous fantasies to become reality.
I honestly believe that what I have done in my life so far is not worthy of any praise. The drawings I've made are lifeless, boring, the same thing over and over again. So many parts of each of them are executed badly if not straight out wrong, and the things that are not certainly could not qualify as pretty, unique, interesting, or inspiring. It's all mediocre and plain, through and through. The articles and stories I've written are not even worth mentioning. How could I ever believe even for a second that I am any good at writing?
I've asked myself many times “why do I keep going?” Well, I think I have an answer now. This idiotic, repulsive, glimmering hope of one day striking gold and being praised as some sort of genius is what keeps me going. I really don't want that to be the reason for my perseverance, but I cannot imagine any other. Nothing else makes sense.
I feel nothing but hatred and shame for so many parts of myself, and yet it appears that I am unable to change any of them. I have the patience of a six-year-old on a sugar-high and about as much compassion and care for the world as a rock at the bottom of the ocean. My tolerance for stupid bullshit is so low even nitroglycerin would withstand more before exploding than I do. The only jokes I can come up with are crass, crude, and have already been told a million times over. I don't know how to entertain people and being a wise-ass certainly doesn't help in that regard either. And that's just some of the things about my personality that I loathe.
One could find plenty of reasons to explain my psychology and would most likely end up blaming it mostly on growing up with an academic genius of a father and thus setting extremely high expectations, but none of that actually matters. It's too late to change any of it. I'm here now, and I'm a horrible person with nothing to excuse or justify that. I don't know how to go on, or even if I should go on at all.
I am broken.
Written by shinmera