I've been gone a long time, and I'm afraid to dip my toes back into the water.
Writing is very difficult for me now. I haven't been doing a lot of it, if any of it at all, and it is as though I've completely forgotten how.
Part of it is being perceived. While it's enjoyable, and addictive even, to have supportive people reading and complimenting my work, it's also slightly debilitating. It causes this irrational fear in me that if I don't post something better than the last thing I posted, then none of this is worth it. Which I know, rationally, is the furthest thing from true.
In addition to the eg0 driven fear I possess, I feel as though every creative fiber of my being has been whisked away by some unknown force of nature. I don't know what to write about. There is no creative wind that speaks to me as clearly as I feel it used to. Forces are no longer whispering into my ears, encouraging me to weave words into themes into stories. I yearn for the days when creativity would strike its arrow into my temple and the letters would flow out of me; my fingers a never-ending fountain of ideas.
When I try to pinpoint that space my mind used to reside in, it's as though I'm looking into a stranger. Even stranger still, I'm aware that I haven't changed as much as I'd like to think I have.
So what am I doing now? If not writing, how are my days being spent?
About 50 - 60 hours a week, I sit in front of a corporate-owned computer, attending meetings, analyzing data in spreadsheets, and putting on a show for a team that thinks I have my life together. I lead meetings with hundreds of people and answer uncomfortable questions on the spot, and with ease. And then I spend my nights panicking, once again, at how I'm being perceived. The shill of a man.
On paper, I'm sure my life seems idyllic. I own property with a home in which I get to work from. I have four dogs and eight chickens with fields to roam. I have a wonderful, kind, intelligent five-year-old son, who never fails to impress me every day. I have a best friend I get to spend my life with, laugh with, and cry with all the same.
And still, there is a hollowness within me. Sometimes debilitating, incapable of getting out of bed. I often forget I have a body and feel like floating consciousness instead. Endless waves of chatter that never shut off and never know what to say to make me feel better.
I haven't made the effort to edit my book in months. I lack the courage to make the effort to query more agents. I can't even sit down and write a poem that I deem worthy of acknowledgment. I can hardly keep my house clean; forget about the laundry. Oftentimes all I want to do is sleep, and even that doesn't come easy.
I'm on medication, and I take it religiously, but I can't seem to get past this feeling of apathy. Not depressed, nor very happy, some sick, sinister thing lying somewhere in the middle. More like machine than man; steady on autopilot waiting for each day to turn into the next on repeat.
In an effort to force myself out of this funk, I'm going to force myself to write and see what happens and see how long it takes to breathe life into myself again.
I'm not going to force myself to write anything creative or meaningful or even good. I'm just going to treat this like a journal that no one else will see and see what may come out of it.
Knowing me, I'll probably just post this and disappear again for months on end. But it doesn't hurt to try.
About the Creator
Ashley Lima
I think about writing more than I write, but call myself a writer as opposed to a thinker.
Reader insights
Outstanding
Excellent work. Looking forward to reading more!
Top insights
Easy to read and follow
Well-structured & engaging content
Expert insights and opinions
Arguments were carefully researched and presented
Heartfelt and relatable
The story invoked strong personal emotions
On-point and relevant
Writing reflected the title & theme
Keep reading
More stories from Ashley Lima and writers in Psyche and other communities.
Why We Imagine the Worst-Case Scenario
It started with a text message that never came. My boyfriend had said he'd call me after his interview. It was 6 p.m., then 7 p.m., then 8 p.m. By 9 p.m., I'd convinced myself he was dead. Not just hurt—dead. Car accident. Mugging gone wrong. Sudden brain aneurysm. I'd already mentally planned his funeral, imagined telling his parents, and pictured myself in black at the cemetery when my phone finally buzzed. "Sorry babe! Interview ran long, then grabbed drinks with the team. How was your day?" I stared at the message, my heart still hammering, hands still shaking. Three hours I'd spent in hell. Three hours of vivid, terrible scenarios playing on loop in my mind. And for what? He'd been fine. Happy, even. That's when I realized: my brain wasn't protecting me. It was torturing me. The Catastrophe Factory I've been a catastrophic thinker for as long as I can remember. Show me any situation, and I'll show you seventeen ways it could end in disaster. A friend doesn't text back? They've decided they hate me and are ghosting me forever. A slight headache? Definitely a brain tumor. My boss wants to "chat"? I'm getting fired, losing my apartment, and will end up homeless. Turbulence on a plane? We're going down, and I've already written my last words to my family in my head. It's exhausting. Every day is a mental obstacle course of imagined tragedies that never materialize. And yet, I can't stop. My brain insists on preparing for the worst, as if anticipating disaster will somehow prevent it. The Genetics of Worry My therapist once asked me, "Where did you learn to think this way?" The answer came immediately: my mother. Growing up, every minor inconvenience was treated like a catastrophe. If my dad was ten minutes late coming home, my mother would pace the kitchen, convinced he'd been in an accident. If I had a cough, she'd keep me home from school, certain it would turn into pneumonia. If the phone rang after 9 p.m., she'd answer it with a trembling voice, already bracing for bad news. I absorbed her anxiety like a sponge. I learned that the world was dangerous, that disaster lurked around every corner, and that the best way to protect yourself was to imagine every terrible possibility before it happened. The logic was twisted but compelling: if I could predict the worst, maybe I could prevent it. Or at least, I wouldn't be blindsided by it. But all I really learned was how to suffer twice—once in my imagination and once if it actually happened. The Illusion of Control Here's what I've come to understand about catastrophic thinking: it's not really about the future. It's about control. When life feels uncertain or chaotic, our brains scramble for a sense of agency. We can't control whether bad things happen, but we can control our mental preparation for them. Catastrophizing becomes a security blanket—uncomfortable, but familiar. I noticed this pattern clearly during the pandemic. While the world was genuinely scary, my catastrophic thinking went into overdrive. I wasn't just worried about getting sick; I was planning for economic collapse, societal breakdown, and the end of civilization as we knew it. My therapist pointed out something crucial: "You're so busy preparing for the worst that you're missing the present moment entirely. And ironically, all this mental preparation doesn't actually help you handle real problems when they arise." She was right. When actual challenges came—losing my job, my grandmother's death, a real health scare—all my catastrophic preparation was useless. The scenarios I'd imagined were never quite right, and the energy I'd spent worrying could have been spent living. The Brain's Ancient Wiring There's a reason catastrophic thinking is so common: evolution. Our ancestors who imagined the worst—who saw every rustling bush as a potential predator—were more likely to survive than the optimists who assumed everything was fine. Anxiety kept them alive. Vigilance was rewarded. But here's the problem: our brains haven't caught up to modern life. We're still operating with software designed for life-or-death situations, applying it to emails, traffic, and social media. That rustling bush is now an unanswered text. That potential predator is now a cryptic comment from our boss. Our amygdala—the brain's alarm system—can't tell the difference between actual danger and imagined threats. So it treats everything like an emergency.
By Ameer Moavia7 days ago in Psyche
Comments (4)
This is very honest and vulnerable. I hope that consistency in journaling will give you enough joy and confidence in your writing. It is excellent, by the way, you haven’t skipped a bit.
Thank you for sharing your experience and how you feel; it helps others know that they aren't alone if they can connect with it too. Now, you ready for some unsolicited medical advice? Check with your doctor about the medicine and dosage. For a long time I was on a single medicine after postpartum depression hit me like a freight train, and I was doing good but there was that same apathy and fluctuation in my moods and being down and just, blegh. So I let my doctor know that while I AM better (since things had been sooooo bad), I'm not great. Turns out, my antidepressant needed a friend, so now I'm on 2 antidepressants and things have been good! Just know that there is no shame in feeling how we feel or taking steps to improve it. Everyone deserves to be happy. And just because you have all these great things in your life, that doesn't mean you can't still feel nothing. It sucks and you feel so guilty about it, but that's just depression (for me it was, at least). It's hard not to beat ourselves up for it too. Sorry this is a long comment. Take care of yourself and I hope you feel better <3
Ideas are born and ideas fade but as long as the desire stays strong your writing will persist. At least that's how this old guy feels about it.
I hope you find your missing piece and your joy again :)