“Is it normal to feel nothing at all?”
This is a line from a story I’ve been working on recently, and when I originally wrote it, I didn’t think much of it. I figured, okay, this character is a hardened villain who has his own qualms and regrets about his job and his past. It just seemed like a no-brainer for his character.
But then I took a step back to analyze my own life. Recently I’ve been going through writer’s block. I just cannot seem to write anything, and when I can, it leaves me feeling a little more than dissatisfied.
Now, I’ve been through writer’s block plenty of times, but this time it just seemed different. And that’s when I realized, I don’t feel anything right now. I’m not sad or upset. I’m not happy. I’m not anything. And I don’t know why.
So I thought to myself, what if I can only write when I’m struggling?
That was a thought beyond scary, and it left me with another question.
If you take away all of my illnesses, for lack of better terms, what’s left of me?
If you scrape away at all of the layers of depression and anxiety and so on, is there really anything there behind it? It’s a question that I’ve unfortunately asked myself on countless occasions. I always just thought, take that away and do I even have a personality? Would people want to be around me?
And now I’ve an added layer of take that away and can I even write anymore? Can I still do this thing that I love so much? And that question makes it a million times worse.
If I get better, would it still be worth it if I can’t write? Maybe that’s a dumb question. Maybe the answer should be obvious, but it’s not.
131Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFhLFI1so8y
Something to consider: the main reason I write most of the time is to pour my pain into stories and words and phrases. If I get better—if I get help—would there even still be a reason to write?
I don’t want to lose my reason. Alas, I’m left with all of these unanswered questions and a gruesome cycle of self hatred and intrusive thoughts itching to be acted upon.
So after this string of realizations, I went back to my original quote: “Is it normal to feel nothing at all?”
Somehow, in the span of twenty minutes, a seemingly insignificant quote I came up within a few seconds has gained so much weight, and I’m left with this aching numbness that I don’t know what to do with.
All I want to do is cry, but here I sit on my bed, my eyes dry and scratchy—coffee, energy drinks, and music being the only reason I’m currently functioning.
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