A Different Kind of Survivor’s Guilt
by Noise Pollution
Lately, with this massive writer’s block I’ve been suffering from, I’ve been thinking a lot about where my creative urges stem from. I’ve been questioning myself, and trying to figure out why I feel so much pressure to make something amazing, even when the idea of pulling it off is so soul-crushingly overwhelming that it drives my already-severe anxiety to new levels.
I’ve found that part of the reason I have that creative urge is due to the accident I was in when I was a child. And no, it’s not as simple as “the trauma of the experience is driving me to do something” because in reality, I don’t have any actual drive. I don’t have the motivation to do anything. The only reason I ever get anything done is because I force myself to do it. So the accident hasn’t given me any drive, or motivation. It’s a little bit more complicated than that.
I survived something I shouldn’t have. I went through a horrible ordeal that permanently scarred my body and mind. I think… I think I’m just searching for some sort of meaning in that. I’m looking for a reason it happened. My creative pursuits are an attempt to justify the horrific memories that I have, because if I don’t do anything with it, then that means that it all happened for no reason. If I don’t craft something out of those haunting memories, than those memories just exist. I just can’t live with the idea of letting all of that pain go to waste. It feels… wrong. I have to make something out of them.
I’ve been wondering lately if that even matters. I’ve been feeling so down that even taking a breath every now and then feels meaningless. If even breathing is meaningless, how can I ascribe meaning to those events?
After I thought all of that through, I got scared. I got scared that all of my creative urges are based on something so flimsy, and that I don’t actually have any talent, or any real reason to live.
I’m afraid that my writing isn’t going to come back. That’s really what all of this is about.