Good morning.
For weeks, I've collected more drafts than you might imagine. Some no longer than one sentence. I think about writing to the internet almost daily and, according to last year's archive, only published 30 entries (although, that's more than I thought). It's not necessarily a blockage. I recently realized why it's been more and more challenging for me to publish semi-public internal thoughts. Other than the fact that 90% of my social interaction is with humans I have contractual confidentiality with, I tend to just be very negative.
I don't have a huge personal issue being a negative person, but I know it affects other people-- whether it's purely irritating, or depressing, or, in this specific case, would be published in writing, unfairly by me. In the past, writing about a negative situation, a douche bag I just met, or any juicy, spunk-filled judgment was easy. It's still easy, but I guess I don't feel like I can get away with it anymore.
I have a long history of negativity. On the surface, it started with anger. But the root was probably pain. I was hurt living and watching my parents struggle financially, but it manifested in anger. I was angry at God but believed it was wrong and shameful to feel, so I never admitted it.
The first time I recall using my anger to my advantage was my college application essay. I started off the essay explaining why my parents didn't have a kimchi refrigerator, and what that meant to not own one, amongst other material things we lacked that made me self-conscious at the time.
I realized that this negative emotion I carried around helped me express my passions-- an acceptable output of anger. So, I was passionate to go to college and leave California. I became passionate about social injustices. I became passionate about things I don't agree with, things I don't think are cool or kind or good or authentic. It gives me plenty of motivation to be superior, to be better-than. To have the self-appointed power to judge what is good and what is bad. This is a flaw that I'm both ashamed and proud of. And to be proud of a flaw seems rather narcissistic.
In my opinion, my best writing is when I'm feeling some negative emotion. Sadness, pain, anger, frustration, unrequited love, all privatized due to potential social ramifications. But, even outside of my writing, I obsess over and emphasize my judgments. It's so ingrained that I don't even notice how repetitive I am. I allow myself to re-read past pains I've documented in great, visceral detail, and feel pleasure in its aching. "It's so good, it hurts." Is that what this trite phrase means?
There is a memorable patient I worked with in the past, only briefly, who was a writer. He came in to see me because he was plagued by his depression. It was revealed, rather unsurprisingly, that he was attached to his depression just as much as he was afflicted by it. It gave him content and inspiration to write, he said. If he were to cure it, would he be able to maintain his creativity?
I related to his attachment to depression. Not the diagnosis and its manifestation, but its weight and captivity. I empathized with his reluctance to even admit that he was depressed. To admit and address would mean to attempt to rid, and to rid would mean lightness and liberation (although "to rid" is not as simple or realistic). To rid would relinquish negatively fueled stimulation. Which would challenge his identity. It would challenge my identity.
Perhaps the conflict of my masochistic tendencies and the appropriateness of writing publicly about a negative interaction with someone (for example) is what leads to these empty posts. I suppose it's on me to figure out a more creative way to be negative without the ethical dilemma.
