this weekend's essay: to tell the truth.


every tongue shall confess: i am riddled with self-doubt. it cripples and paralyzes me. i am a professional self-saboteur.

i had more than just technical difficulties last week. true, i did type the entire rumor when all of a sudden a fuse in my apartment blew for the second time in three days. i put who i had on the phone on hold, screamed "fuck!" and smacked my desk. generally, that works. i recover, and rewrite the entry from memory. but last week, as i tried to begin my rumor again, all i could do was just stare angrily at the computer.

then, i crawled into bed.

i am prone to bouts of mild depression. i will go days without leaving my apartment, primarily occupying one room, leaving only for necessities like finding food. several friends called to wish me a happy holiday. i've yet to return their phone calls. in the last two weeks, i've spoken to my mother once. our conversation lasted less than a minute. i've wasted more time than you can imagine. doing absolutely nothing. i feel...uninspired, lethargic, sad.

i don't know why i write this, why i say this here. maybe just to answer the question that seems to always come up whenever i have an "ask fecundmellow" entry: are you like your blogging persona? hell no. summer m. is a character, some monster i've created; someone i invented when i didn't even know i was experimenting. summer m.? she's a know-it-all, just doesn't give a fuck. summer? she hasn't a fucking clue.

i want to write.

all my life the most consistent refuge i've had has been books. want to hear me move from monotone to a voice filled with animated passion? ask me about books. i'll talk then. tell you more than you ever wanted to know. and all my life i've thought of how amazingly romantic it would be to weave stories.

or maybe not.

see, at least once a day i heavily consider the thought that i'm no writer at all. that it's simply a lie i've created and started believing. that, in fact, this whole "i cannot work a real job because i must think and create" bullshit is just bullshit. that i should've gone ahead and graduated from college with a degree in business, and clocked in like the rest of the world. that i've no potential for artistry, but rather a desire to appear as (a) creator/creative. that i've no proclivity for any form of the written word--including fiction and literary criticism. the most debilitating torment i feel inside is the thought that i am a fraud. being outted as gay is the least of my concerns.

the older i get, the more inept i feel. i have never, in my mind, been good enough, acceptable. perhaps this is hard for you, reader(s), to believe. i don't say "i don't think i'm funny," for you to retort, "oh yes you are." i'm not a fisher of compliments. do i think i'm funny? not really. do i think i'm smart? hell no. i'm just not dumb. big difference. do i think i'm a good writer? get the fuck outta here. absolutely not. my writing is weak, sloppy, unrefined. i see writing like saf's, like l's, and i'm wonder "how do they put words together like that?"

*wait. as i type this, mother calls. fucking instincts (comma) yo.*

there's an inner debate i have: am i more afraid of failure or success? i don't think i could handle either. i want to write something of substance, something that will last. if it fails, i will never write again. if it succeeds, i will never write again. and success, failure are not contingent upon tangible signs of approval, but self-approval. a notion so abstract i don't even know what it means. i don't know where it comes from. i don't know why i've never been good enough in my own mind.

i should see a therapist. i know better, but i'm too intoxicated with self-deprecation to do better.

the loudest prayers can never quiet even the meekest sussurations of my impending and inevitable decline.

i need more than holy water to be saved.


all of this to say: if you feel like sharing, wanna lay your burden down. do it here.

thanks for reading.

sm.