This did not kill me.

I have been thinking about writing this paper for the entire semester, nay, two semesters, and it’s not that there is nothing to write about. Rather, there is everything to write about, and how do I pluck the words to create the perfect message of what needs to be said?

This was part of an intensely vivid dream I had this morning upon waking, a daily occurrence since beginning an SNRI. It had been at least a decade since I had remembered my dreams on a regular basis. It happened quickly after starting the lowest dose a couple years ago. I’d wake up and wonder what kind of hallucinogenics my mouth found while I was in one of the best nights of sleep I’d gotten in recent memory.

Truthfully, it was a welcome change to my nights. I’d had vivid, reality-driven dreams as a child and teenager, slowly disappearing through my twenties, and rarely finding their way back in my thirties. Some mornings I wake up convinced I had an orgasm in my sleep, they are that good.

Did you note how that dream-written piece was for a college semester? Apparently a class that I had to take twice because I failed it the first time. That occurs often in my dreams despite never being a reality. But also, I write in my head like I have to continue writing for a university class, and maybe my brain is giving me permission to stop doing that. In those following paragraphs, I used bold letters to emphasize, something you don’t do in university. But I am long past uni, and now I write for me (with the hopes that at least a few people might dare read this) so that I can chronicle my life. I have difficulty giving myself permission to break out of the rules. On paper at least.

Let’s be real, I eat at work where I am not supposed to, and throw out profanity to the public if I feel like the person I’m talking to won’t go running to tattle on me. So why is it, that I have such a hard time breaking out of this documentation style that has absolutely no bearing on what I write at 39 years old, post-uni, and on my own goddamn website?!

It’s the last restriction I have yet to shake before my creativity might flow more freely.

I have been tossing around in my head FOR YEARS how to structure a memoir. What I really needed was to figure out HOW TO JUST START WRITING THE DAMN THING. It didn’t matter that I joined creativity groups of wonderful people who were on their own journey to making beautiful art and music and their own books. It didn’t matter that I have paid almost $200 a year for the past four years for a website that remains mostly idle. It didn’t matter that I bought myself a keyboard to pair with my iPhone so I could write anywhere, or a Pomera DM100 so that I could have a dedicated writing device without distractions, or a Kindle Scribe so that I could hand write when I didn’t feel like typing and my fingers held the secret.

My fingers don’t hold the fucking secret! I am holding myself back. And for what? To be disappointed in myself so that I can manifest a reason to be depressed? WHAT FOR?! The world is doing that enough, and I think it has finally sunk in!

You know what I learned in uni? That I just described a Self-Fulfilling Prophecy. Yes, I have a Bachelor’s in Psychology. What has it gotten me? Not a whole lot. It does look good on my resume, but I am a cashier. A god damn cashier. Yes, for a company that is notoriously difficult to get a job at, and one that I had applied to many times in my life. And I am thankful for it. Truly.

But I want more for myself, and what I want is to write a book that sells at least a few hundred copies. I have fantasized about being a writer most of my life. Lately, I have literally been dreaming about it too. So now I shall begin.