Write. Just write. It doesn’t even matter what you write about or whether you have something to say. Just put some words down and see where it leads you. Getting back into the habit is a pain in the proverbial ass — really it is. Doing so with an anxiety disorder is almost hellish. Struggling over every idea, every thought, every letter of every word and worrying about whether what you’re writing will be misconstrued in some gruesome manner by some random stranger you’ve never even met nor likely ever will is completely detrimental to any and all creative processes.
Staring at the page. I’ve been staring at the page a lot these days. Pretty much, that’s what I do — stare at the page. I don’t know where the heck the words are, but they certainly aren’t making it here. I’m stifled. Caged. Trapped. Paralyzed by life and the fears within. It’s beyond frustrating. It’s infuriating. Maddening. And sad — so sad. I feel stuck in the past — like my life is on instant replay. Different players but always the same game. I’m so tired of this game. So, so very tired. What is going on in my