Alright, so it’s about 5:30 in the morning as I write this, so I can’t guarantee this will make much sense. I’m about to get very “Dear Diary” all up in this shit.
I haven’t been able to sleep “properly” as of late. Granted, I’m still unemployed, meaning sleep is all kinds of fucked up for me (like, waking up before noon will get me a pat on the back––from myself), but it’s bad. Like really bad. See the timestamp for this blog post?
Now the reason for being unable to sleep is different than what I’m used to; I’m not depressed. At least not yet. I suppose you could say I’m more anxious. Perhaps this is embarrassing to admit, but I think I’ve already embarrassed myself enough, so fuck it.
I recite lines in my head. ALL THE TIME. I say things that I think are funny; things that I should be writing down; material for my podcasts; material for fucking YouTube vlogs that I’ll never do; possible bits for the comedy stand-up I’m so goddamn afraid to try; whatever remotely comedic or poignant things I should express.
Yet here’s the kicker: I don’t. I don’t express them. I don’t write them down (or most of them). At BEST, I try to deliver some of these thoughts when I sit down and record a podcast episode, and it essentially comes out as mumbly, filler-word shit: “Uh…yeah…um…so yeah.”
Then I start getting down because I think, goddamn I am nowhere near as good/funny/clever/smart/talented as I think I am.
Naturally, those thoughts of negativity cloud my judgment and I start thinking, “FUCK! EVERYONE ELSE MUST THINK I AM SHIT! I’m losing Facebook likes (because that’s obviously a measure of self-worth), no one’s vocalizing feedback to me anymore, people hate my stuff. Waaaahhhhhh.”
But the interesting part of all this, of my recent not-sleeping, is that it’s all resurfacing at once. While I’m wavering in confidence in myself, I’m getting these torrents of ideas and creative what-ifs for things I once lost hope in. And although I’m not sure I should be taking this bout of energy as a sign, that’s the truth of it: I am feeling this anxious energy. Like I should be creating more.
And yet, I’ve described it as an anxious energy, and not…excitable energy (is the lack of sleep kicking in now?). Why? Probably because I’m still so fucking scared. Of what? I don’t know, of failing? I think of all the people who try to make their own work, try to be themselves and use their personality for work, be funny, and whatever the fuck else they do, and fail. So. Hard. That scares me so bad! To put yourself out there, your own self, your soul, everything that makes you you, and then to find out you’re not good enough because no one likes your work, when your work is you.
I am trying to remind myself, it’s all part of a process. It’s steps to honing your craft. And no one will help you until you help yourself (or so I’ve been led to believe). It’s quite lonely. I’m not sure if it’s supposed to be this way, but I don’t really know what other way it can be. At times, I am my only pillar of support, and at other times, I am my worst voice of criticism. But this is part of the process, I guess. It’s one of the growing pains.
It’s an interesting path, lately, just doing this podcast. In the beginning I was excited, but now I can say I get afraid. Putting pieces of myself out there is hard, and for only the audience of my friends (at least presently) it’s almost harder. Ironic how that is. I still don’t know what I’m doing with it––but really, I didn’t need to tell you that. It’s still a baby project. Or more importantly, it’s my baby project. I hope it fosters into something. Even if it doesn’t grow up, even if it just goes limp and dies in a trash can somewhere (yechh), I hope it teaches me where to go. That’s the very minimum I can wish for.