It’s been a while since I wrote something, edited it, and posted it to this blog. Not sure how much of this post will see through the editing phase, though. During my unofficial leave of absence, I’ve gone through some life transitions; most notable being the leap from seasonal work to graduate school, as I’m now pursuing a master’s degree. I’ve wanted so badly to keep writing blog posts during all the chaos of these past couple seasons, but I began allowing barriers to get in the way, and those barriers only began to snowball into a mountain of daunt that my ADHD brain couldn’t summon the willpower to summit.
Of course, nothing about the blog writing process itself has changed, besides the unsettling introduction of AI; the only thing to change was me. To be honest, ADHD, my typical scapegoat, is less of what got in my way this time. More so, a piece of feedback I received, powerful enough in its pugnancy, took me down. One that wasn’t shiny or happy or encouraging. I’m not writing this seeking pity in any form, let that be known.
Part of what fueled my fire to write and publish, what I considered to be helpful pieces of information, to the internet world, was the encouraging feedback I got from friends and even strangers. The people who took the time to let me know that they enjoyed what I wrote or even took away tokens of knowledge from my posts. Those interactions made me feel so good, and became the primary challenger to the increasing, creeping thoughts of self-doubt about my blog and the things I wrote.
There’s an element of perfectionism to ADHD, and the blog-writing process greatly amplified that for me. Minor details of my writing were presented to my mind under a microscope as imperfect shortcomings, not suitable for the multifaceted army of hate found on the internet. If any of my writing slipped under my radar, it was sent into the world unarmed, ready for investigation and silent ridicule, away from the safety of my pre-publication bootcamp.
I wanted every lesson, topic, or story to be delivered with as much accuracy and eloquence as my brain allowed. Which meant, sometimes, static thought holes were clocking more hours than words to paper were. I’m not sure this experience can be classified as writer’s block, so unless proven guilty, I’m labelling it the crippling feedback loop of shoulda coulda woulda. If I could only show you just how many nearly finished blog drafts are currently sitting in my drive, a graveyard of shoulda coulda woulda.
Perfectionism is an immense amount of pressure to put on a lengthy process, a creative process at that, which ideally stems from a flow state, not a static thought-spiral. All this to say, I was often in my head during some stages of this blog journey, a self-elected journey, and one I was walking in solitude.
I received a piece of negative feedback, qualifying, in my opinion, for the holy grail of undesired feedback by any writer anywhere. It came from someone in my family whom I respect, love, and look up to a lot. I know they meant what they said in good intentions from their perspective, hoping to shine light on something that, in their eyes, was best for me. The contrary took over, and it tore me apart. In short, they told me that I was bad at blogging, not just ok or not great, but bad; and in my mind, bad is what I became.
I didn’t stop writing right away, but I began to question everything even more. I wasn’t even fully sure of how much of my writing my critic had even read, but for some reason, it didn’t ease any sting from their offense. I used to think that what I was writing and putting into the world had deep meaning, and even if it reached a few people, that was enough for me; but that no longer held space in my motivation. If I was bad at blogging, something I loved so intensely, what was out there for me? What has all of this even been for? Why am I so fragile to someone else’s opinion of my passion?
I found a life outside of writing. Though never the star of my show, writing somehow perpetually stole the stagelight. All along, my scribe journey was the side character to my main quests, yet it surfaced appetency in each adventure. More than just published word, writing meaning words also in the forms I took for myself in my journals, through conversations, and thoughts. Up until my downfall, I hadn’t realized how much of my motivation was running on validation; my passion perennially parched, ready to stick its straw in any source.
Of course, none of this is as dramatic as I’m making it out to be, but when you give an ADHDer a cookie, you can’t rule out a shame spiral.
A big theme I found myself wading in through these post-grad years has been the not knowing of what I want to do with my life. After a thorough investigation, by word vomiting this dilemma into many of my recent conversations over the past year, I’ve concluded that the unknowing journey is ever-unfolding. People in all stages of life have expressed how they, too, are still figuring out what they want to do with their lives, and I’m finding comfort in the beauty of the privilege of choice. As if holding the liberation of choice down, feathers from its wings lost with each passing minute, all out of fear of flying into the “wrong” part of the sky, is the catch-22 of being 23. What place does one part of the sky have to judge another? Though choice is beautiful, decision is important, and as my boyfriend put so inspiringly yesterday in the ocean when I was psyching myself out, “You’ll never know unless you go.” <3.
There’s a lot of advice on the internet, and I don’t intend for any of this to add on to the pile. However, I do want to share something that’s been working for me a little, incase it might work for someone else: tuning out the noise. Our brains truly are not wired to process the wide net of exposure that the internet casts on our consciousness. Scrolling, listening, and dissociating are all harmful for many reasons. The most prevalent consequence, centering my current focus, is their ability to pull you far away from the sweet nectar of happiness only you can find in the present moment of your life.
I have a brain and soul that want to do everything possible within the bounds of this limitless world. In the past, that has left me with a cracked back after plummeting from the highest of highs, landing on the pavement of reality, with no net of roots to catch my fall. I’m happy to say, to myself if anyone, that I now have roots. And guess what? I’ve planted roots for other people as well. They’re growing and connecting and forming a buffer to catch me and embrace me and hug me if I fall again. The real kicker? Some of my roots have been there the whole time. I was just running as far as I could from them, convinced that I couldn’t live a full life in the presence of serenity. But roots from one tree are no match for the heights you can find yourself in this life; it takes a village.
All this to say, I’m not going anywhere. I may not be close, but I’m also not too far. Writing is part of my complex. I can’t say that I’ve indelibly passed the test of negativity, but I can say that I haven’t come this far, just to come this far.
Spread your wings and fly.
Xx
Emma
P.S. MY God is a Woman
