I don’t even know how to start this… writing has become somewhat of a foreign concept to me. I remember just over a year ago, the accountability challenge. I had so many things I wanted to do this past year.
I did none of them. Absolutely nothing worthwhile. I dare to say it was my worst year.
I left my fiancé of seven years and moved back in with my mother. I’m on welfare. I failed out of college. I have a plethora of medical conditions that conveniently only became an issue once I decided to be healthier and quit smoking and consuming energy like they were my reason for living. I have debt that is crippling me because I decided college was a good idea. It wasn’t. I always said I wouldn’t regret it but I do. God do I regret it. All that time and money for nothing.
I’m… a little lost. I hear that sometimes happens when you’re trying to find yourself again. I had this romanticized idea that I would start weeding out all the bad things in my life and then things would get better. I would start to heal. I would… be happy. I’m not. I’m stupid. Or maybe this is a limbo period. I don’t fucking know anymore.
I don’t write much. I don’t read much either. Haven’t painted something I’m proud of in years. All things that had been such major parts of my life. I just can’t. Every time I look at paper I just feel a crushing weight on me. I just can’t do it. I just exist. Some days I don’t even get out of bed. The days come and they go. They blur. Because nothing really matters and nothing is really significant.
I’m holding on tighter than I have to anything else, that this will pass. That my love for words will return. That my passion for creating will come back. But it’s really difficult at the moment. I feel a bit like a failure… okay a lot like a failure. I’m trying to find myself, find meaning in things. Look for the bigger picture, the deeper message but I just don’t see the point anymore. The crushing ache for nonexistence is ever present within me.
There’s this constant darkness around me. These thoughts that I, in fact, did not make anything better. That in my attempts to heal and better myself I just made it worse. I’m a bad person sometimes. I don’t always make the right choice. But they say that something that hurts you is bad for you, but what if I hurt myself? Does that mean I’m bad for myself? And If I can’t trust myself then how do I know any of the decisions I made were good?
I would like for this year to be different… I would like to actually accomplish the things I say I will. But I don’t think I’ll speak about them this time. I don’t think I can take another year of failures and what ifs. Constantly wondering when the better everyone talks about will get here. I’m honestly a little scared I’ll stop believing before it comes.
Anyway, I’m hoping I’ll write again someday. Something meaningful. Maybe I’ll draw something. Maybe I’ll pick up a book I can finish. I want to. It’ll be enough some day. I just don’t know when.
About the Creator
Tiffany Fairfield
I’m 27 and have absolutely no clue what I’m doing at any given point. Kind of still trying to figure it out. But writing helps so there’s that I guess.
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Comments (1)
This is meaningful, this piece. It resonated with me and so you've started already and I recognise it. You probably never stopped but just lost sight of it in the change. Inch forward, Tiffany. Don't have big goals - just inch. You'll get there and it may be slow but you'll get there and be kind. Your life has been turned upside down. It's bound to affect you. And if you can write about it. Give it form. Take what feels like chaos and give it form. Just a little bit of control can go a long way - or maybe just an inch - but it's still an inch in a different direction. Wishing you well.