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.
But…but
No. Every breath isn’t meaningless. You won’t believe me, judging from what you’ve written. But no, every breath isn’t meaningless.
I know that it’s not, logically, it’s just that lately I’ve been feeling a lot of… well, nothing, honestly, and it’s been hard to find meaning in just about anything.