The Optimal Speed of Dreams

My dreams are not moving along at their optimal speed. I turn twenty in four days. That might be the scariest thing I've ever written, right there. That's coming from someone who writes horror.

I was complaining to some family members the other day, about how things aren't moving at the pace I'd hoped, and I figured I would get that same old spiel about things taking time and disappointment being a part of life, but instead, one of them told me I wasn't working hard enough.

Here is the thing: I am working hard enough.

I'm nineteen, and I've written more books than some bestselling adult authors have. I've given them the best editing and covers I can afford. I've taken on debilitating dayjobs that I loathe to pay for new equipment to keep creating. I've pushed through mental illness the best I can, when at times I thought I would not make it through the day without ending my own life.

I'm working. You may not see it, but I am. And I thought it would pay off.

It's hard, not to feel discouraged at this point. I force myself to use social media that often makes me mental illness worse and triggers bouts of depression and anxiety, I've had personal relationships crumble because of my work or because of aforementioned episodes of mental illness.

Last week or so, the 600 dollar laptop I'd bought on Black Friday - the one I took that seasonal job just to afford - broke. And I can't afford to replace it. And I can't - both can't and won't - take another job to get a new one. I have no clue how I survived that work.

It got to the point where I was not leaving my room unless it was to go to work. I would just lie in the dark and fantasize about dying - and that's if I wasn't self medicating. I lost eleven pounds, I started to hate myself. I did my best to stay positive, because it felt like if I acted positive, things might get better. They did not get better.

I can't afford a therapist anymore, I can't afford medication anymore - and I can't afford to go into another round of depression like that, where I'm barely making it through the day, where I have to leave work early because I've been awake for two days from stress and now I'm about to have an emotional breakdown on the floor. I can't do that.

And I also can't see how I can't not. We have no warranty and no receipt, because the person I gave them to to put away forgot to, and lost them. My parents aren't willing to help me out, and I don't blame them, since they can barely help themselves.

And that's what scares me; that I'm becoming like them. Not because I don't love them, or because they're aren't strong people. But because I was born into this cycle of poverty and mental illness and abuse and sometimes I worry I won't ever be able to break it. Sometimes I worry that I'm not cut out to be a writer, or not good enough, or that I don't have what it takes to survive - not just the moment, but this. Life. The world. sometimes I feel like that every day.

And maybe in five years I'll be reading this blog post, laughing about it. But right now that feels less and less likely by the minute. Right now, I can't see the light at the end of this tunnel.

The only thing I can really do is keep doing what I'm doing. Keep writing books, keep hoping at least one of said books gets at least a little bit of attention.

But hope is hard, and I'm tired. This is not the optimal speed of dreams.

The long and short of it, working and writing just got a lot harder. Being positive, even as positive as I've been, just got a lot harder. I'm not the kind of person to give up, but that doesn't mean I can't break. I'm afraid something is going to break me, one of these days.