I always thought I’d be a writer. Which is ridiculous… what, with no schooling, backing, experience in writing. And not even that much reading, if I’m being honest. I strongly believe you can’t be a good writer without devoting your life to reading every free second of your day. But I thought, somehow, if I just kept doing it forever and ever, eventually I’d develop a style all my own that people would enjoy. eyeroll.
In my teens, writing was my form of therapy. Whenever I was upset about anything, excited, or just thoughtful, I’d draft a real vague, stupid post, and tweak it for hours until it was just vague enough to my liking. I followed a lot of other bloggers and basically copied them. Total poser. Into my 20s, my own words would sometimes floor me as I was writing. It felt like such a form of relief just to get the damn thoughts outside of myself. I didn’t really care about who was viewing it anymore, I just wanted it out of my brain. It always made me feel better, even if all I did was talk in circles to myself.
Since I’m one hundred percent self-centered, the world revolves around me, everything is about me, the only thing I can actually write about is myself. Which is unfortunate because I’m incredibly boring. My life has been pretty easy. I have very loving parents who support all my stupid endeavors, even when they don’t fully agree. I’ve been broke, but I’ve never been so broke that I’m homeless. Again, thanks to my parents.
I used to purposefully put myself into these terrible situations. Just to spice things up a bit. I’d push the limits of my friendships, work life, even my living environment. I’ve had so many jobs, friends, and roommates that I just straight up walked out on. Ghosted before ghosting was a thing. Irish goodbyes. One reason was just to prove to myself that I could. The more you blow stuff up, the better you get at putting it all back together. The more stress you confront, the easier the stress is to handle. It’s like getting in a car wreck, but not panicking because you know what to do, you’ve been here before. The chaos is familiar.
Another reason was for the stories. I was determined to be expose myself to anything unknown. A lot of those people and places I walked out on, I shouldn’t have been around, in the first place. These were created from the moments when I would tell myself “this is a terrible idea, but let’s do it anyway and see what happens”. And then I’d have to hatch my escape plan. I got really good at escaping.
The good news is, I think I’ve got that out of my system. Bad news is, I never wrote specifically about any of these situations. If I did, it would have been a super angsty, but incredibly vague post here on kandy.net. Which is no longer accessible anyway because my site got hacked and I lost everything, a couple years ago. Ever since I learned how damn easy it is for anyone to pick up a written journal and read it, I don’t do that anymore. So, these stories are just in my head, never to be spoken of, because they’re mostly embarrassing.
I’d like to start writing about these events, people, places. The shit situations I gladly put myself into just to gladly get myself out of. I don’t know where to start. So let’s just sit on that for a minute.