I’ve forgotten what it feels like to write for an audience, rather than just for myself in my journal. It’s nerve wracking but long over due.
In recent months I have been on an emotional roller coaster. It has taken me through twists and turns, flips and loops and has, for now, come to a halt. I have begun to come to terms with things that I was never willing to admit existed. I have owned up to problems I believed weren’t there, or if I ignored hard enough, would go away. My writers muse was no longer a muse but a monster in disguise, a disease that plagued me for far too long. I had to answer a simple question.
“Do you want to live this way forever?”
The question didn’t seem simple at the time, and any answers I could come up with felt rehearsed or unnecessarily cynical. The only truth I could muster up the courage to admit was I was afraid of losing the face I created. We often wear a mask for so long, we hardly recognized who we are without it, but this was not my problem. I was afraid of what my world would be like if I took off my mask. Would the people in my life still love me? Or did they only love the version of me I let them see? The scariest question I had to ask myself was could I be anybody with, or without my magic muse? It had always been there as an excuse, a crutch, but now there is nothing, and no one to blame but the one person who has always had the final say in my life.
It’s been 13 days since I answered that question. 13 glorious days I never believed I could get through, but I have, and with a smile on my face. The journey doesn’t end but begins here. I know every day will not feel glorious, and I will not always be sporting a smile but for now, I feel like throwing that mask away and walking bare faced towards the future. It will always be a part of me, but it won’t be the only part that anyone sees anymore.
In an attempt to curb my boredom, which is my Kryptonite against the muse monster, I have started painting again, reading, writing in my journal, anything to keep my mind occupied and unsullied (to a certain extent), but I can’t help becoming frustrated. I thought with this new step in my life, would come inspiration and ideas but instead, I find myself staring at the same unfinished stories, unable to put into words what I want or need to happen. I could start new stories, and I have, but it’s something about these stories that scream “FINISH ME”. I’m only 24 and I know there is plenty of time for finishing unwritten endings, but I feel so much pressure to prove to these characters, and mostly myself, that I can finish what I’ve started. I guess that’s not the worst attitude to have in this current state of my life.
My name is Brianne. I am The Greenest of Blues. I am a writer. I am an alcoholic.
Until Next Time,
The Greenest of Blues