My Writers Block

So today I'm going through all my drafts and posting the ones I finished but never published. This particular one I wrote several years back but never published due whatever reason. It's full of feels, and most of them aren't necessarily relevant to my life today beyond the fact that this experience made me part of who I am today.
So whoever's out there reading this, now you know a piece of what's inside my heart.


Without further ado, I give you:

My Writer's Block


There is something very important that I need to write about.

My writers block. 

All my life I have felt the need to express myself through words on a page. 

Whether it had anything to do with my current life struggle or not, as long as I held a pen in my hand and there was paper, I was alright. Being able to create a place where my problems did not exist... it fueled me. It gave me strength, and courage to go on even when I didn't think I could. When I felt alone all I had to do was close my eyes and imagine the characters I had invented into life, walking next to me. Their problems were worse than mine. I made them that way.

I had big plans. Write a novel, send it to a publisher, become a best seller overnight, and move to a place that would fuel my imagination so I could keep writing forever. Very few people knew of my love of writing. I shared it with few people because I was afraid of imperfection.

And then life happened. It hit me like a train, while I was standing still.

I moved to college. I was swept away, and very overwhelmed by the newness of it all. A new town, a new life, and not knowing anybody. 

All the people I cared about were so far away, and precious few of them talked to me at all once I was gone. Those who did meant the world to me, no matter the duration of our conversation. Being quite introverted and afraid of new people caused me a bit of trouble when it came to making new friends. I spent nearly every minute I wasn't in class laying in my bed. 

But despite the lack of activity on my part, I was exhausted. Mentally, physically, and emotionally exhausted.

I forgot who I was.

But I still wanted to write. 

But I couldn't.

And it wasn't that I didn't have ideas. Ideas flew through my brain at a rate of roughly 600 miles per hour. Notebooks exist, just full of ideas. But when I held a pen in my hand, instead of seeing stories all I could see was darkness and a blank page. 

The page. It taunted me every day. I wanted more than anything to fill it. To keep a promise.

A few words would slip out every now and again, but it seemed as though I were rewriting myself instead of creating something. The person I was becoming was not at all the person I wanted myself to be.

And every day that I couldn't fill that page was another day I spent breaking a promise. Promises from me once meant something, but now I felt the guilt of each unfulfilled promise weighing down on my shoulders. 

I'll have it next week. Tomorrow for sure. I'm sorry, not today. 

My word meant precious little now.

Frustration ensued.

Nearly two years had passed. One day, a ray of sunshine broke through my writers block and I filled that page. And then another. My masterpiece was finished, my promise no longer broken.

But the dark fell again, and I couldn't write. 

Because a broken promise is so much more than just something you didn't do. 

When you break a promise, you hurt other people. Because that promise signifies trust, trust that you can and will do something to the best of your ability. And breaking that promise breaks that trust.

I have spent so many nights looking out at the stars and wondering if there is anyone in the world that I haven't let down. 

And the guilt and the tears overtake me sometimes because I don't know how I will ever fix the wrongs that I did, the trusts that I broke. 

I never intended this.

But each day my pen grows lighter in my hand. 

And each day, I fight to write a little more. 

This writer's block will not get the best of me again.