Sometimes I don’t like to write and I do it anyway.
I struggle to write and I try to fill the pages of my journal and I hate myself.
Why am I doing this when I don’t want to write? Every word I put down feels insincere, an extraction with nothing to numb the process. I scream in frustration. I scream at myself. I hate myself for forcing myself to continue writing when I don’t want to write.
Writing when you don’t want to only breeds resentment. I tell myself to take a break and then I’m thinking about it. I still hate it, but I feel guilty for not writing. You know?
I’m good at this thing I do. I’m good at writing. I keep writing because I know that I’m good at it. I keep writing because I know others know that I’m good at it. They think I enjoy it and I’m not really enjoying it. I want it to stop. I want to throw away the expectations.
I want to take a break.
Maybe not forever, but I want to step away from it all. I want to stop doing the things that people have put on me as sticky notes.
This is her. This is what she likes to do. And I’m too afraid to tell them differently. I don’t want to disappoint them. I don’t want to have them see me in that way. Because really, they don’t want to see me change. They don’t want to see me as something other than static.
And it hurts.
It hurts to know that no one wants me to change. No one wants me to spread my wings and fly. Is it so hard for someone to understand that they want to be somewhere different and change me? My preferences aren’t the preferences that I project. I’m a certain way because the expect me to be a certain way and its tiring to pretend.
It’s tiring to be someone I no longer am.