Woke up to some pretty sad news in my email this morning. With every passing day, I’m realizing just how much I just don’t want to do this whole author thing anymore. Every time I log in it’s to more bad news, more vitriol, more hate, anger, rude comments, harassment, and just about every other negative emotion you can think of. It’s making me feel sad, angry, and hopeless. Every day it’s something different. Every day it’s something new, and I’m sorry. It’s taking it’s toll on me mentally, emotionally, and physically to the point that I am almost longing to go back to a day job.
I’m having more days lately where I just want to give up this whole writing gig and never look back. I can’t help it. All of this negativity is seriously taking it’s toll on me creatively. It’s been over a year and a half of some of the hardest days of my life. Days where my home, my family; hell, even my cats have had their lives threatened because of me. Days where I’ve watched people I’ve considered friends distance themselves from me and close themselves off because they didn’t want the same treatment. Watching and listening to people roll their eyes and tell me to just stop talking about it already, that they’re sick of hearing it.
Trust me. I get you. I’m sick of living it.
That’s what this boils down to, I guess. I’m sick of living it, and the longer I stay a part of book world the more I get to live it, every day, without fail.
I’m starting to feel worthless. Like a machine just here to churn out books and make everyone feel good for a couple of hours when I can’t even find that for myself anymore and I know y’all are sick of the pity party, and I know more than a few of you have hit unsubscribe or have stopped reading by now or have even stopped reading altogether, and I don’t know what to do.
I can’t stop feeling like this, it’s not like I can flip a switch and everything is suddenly okay.
Nothing. Is. Okay.
Nothing will ever be okay for me again. I live in constant fear. I don’t leave my home more than once a week if I can help it anymore. Being a part of the indie author community has taken far more joy out of my life than I can probably ever put back. I don’t know what to do. I’m not a quitter, I’ve never been known to just give up, but every day I look around and I see more doors closing and my world keeps getting smaller and smaller. Lonlier. More painful.
I look at my fiance, and I see it in his eyes, the hurt and the fear reflected there. Still, to this day, even though I am better than I was, I see the haunting question of ‘if I go to work today, will she be alive when I get back?’ I feel so incredibly guilty about that. You don’t even know. There is nothing I can do or say to assuage those feelings for either him or myself because there are still so many days, like today, where the only answer I have to give him is ‘I don’t know.’
Today is a bad day. A really bad day. Tomorrow will hopefully be better, but I feel like I’m trapped and circling the bowl and I don’t know what to do to change it except start looking for a job and scrap this idea that I can make it at this anymore.
That’s the truth. The whole truth about how I feel for the most part lately. It’s not pretty, but it’s there. The mental health struggle is real, all. So just do me a favor and try to go out of your way to be kind to an author who seems like they’re overwhelmed or struggling.
This shit is hard and it’s only getting harder and for right now, I just can’t pretend anymore that it’s roses.