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Honestly I have so much denial that I am the writer who is constantly surprised when my characters are me. I mean, obviously they are parts of me, but it’s never the parts I think they are. Like being such an unmedicated pain in the ass all the time with anxiety and depression and losing most everyone around me because of it, driving them away maybe (or slightly on purpose), with the general feeling that it’s for the best because I am such a pain in the ass, which all creates this twisted feedback loop of feeling unworthy and becoming more convinced that they wouldn’t want to hang out with me anyway because of this unworthiness. All exacerbated by the fact that I really can’t blame people for pulling away, to be fair. After all, everyone has their own drama and you have to take care of you first, right?
Except then there is a strength in me because I have been through all this, I have lived with it, and I am still here, I made it through. Others see that strength and want it to protect them. And I love them and I want to belong so most of the time I don’t mind lending my strength to others, because it feels good and it makes me feel great and strong and worthy. … Until the times when I need my strength for me again but I find it all used up.
Then there’s the rage. The anger that comes with depression, believe it or not, and from the deep dark places inside that don’t care about being fair. Things weren’t fair for me, why do I have to be fair for others? The part that just wants someone to make it better, or at least to have a thing of its very own that understands, and accepts, and loves. … And then not let go because that part is a jealous, possessive bastard.
The higher, nobler characters, they are me too of course. Scarred survivors in love with genius and scared, confused youngsters struggling to adapt to a changing world. Flirty, sparkly dorks and honest, devoted innocents. But those characters are never as much of me as the messed up, lonely hearts, and they never seem to speak to people as much either. People admire them, lust after them, love them, but it’s the jerks and the crazies that makes them read me. I never understood that either, at least not as much as I am starting to now. I am blind to obvious things, what can I say?
(Note: While that post kind of went, er, darker and more insightful than I’d intended, I really did mean it in a 'I feel you guys' kind of way. And then it didn’t do that at all. Writer fail! Though I suppose it works out well that I never realize I’m writing me until it’s all over. Stops the self-consciousness. Something.)
Except then there is a strength in me because I have been through all this, I have lived with it, and I am still here, I made it through. Others see that strength and want it to protect them. And I love them and I want to belong so most of the time I don’t mind lending my strength to others, because it feels good and it makes me feel great and strong and worthy. … Until the times when I need my strength for me again but I find it all used up.
Then there’s the rage. The anger that comes with depression, believe it or not, and from the deep dark places inside that don’t care about being fair. Things weren’t fair for me, why do I have to be fair for others? The part that just wants someone to make it better, or at least to have a thing of its very own that understands, and accepts, and loves. … And then not let go because that part is a jealous, possessive bastard.
The higher, nobler characters, they are me too of course. Scarred survivors in love with genius and scared, confused youngsters struggling to adapt to a changing world. Flirty, sparkly dorks and honest, devoted innocents. But those characters are never as much of me as the messed up, lonely hearts, and they never seem to speak to people as much either. People admire them, lust after them, love them, but it’s the jerks and the crazies that makes them read me. I never understood that either, at least not as much as I am starting to now. I am blind to obvious things, what can I say?
(Note: While that post kind of went, er, darker and more insightful than I’d intended, I really did mean it in a 'I feel you guys' kind of way. And then it didn’t do that at all. Writer fail! Though I suppose it works out well that I never realize I’m writing me until it’s all over. Stops the self-consciousness. Something.)
