Why? Maybe

“2022 will be different!”

— me, December 2021 (naively)

I’ll journal. I’ll make films. I’ll take photos and make art. I’ll creatively express myself and put everything I’ve got into my ideas.

It all seemed so good on paper that I never stopped to ask why.

Personally, I don’t think we ask ourselves “why?” enough.

We’re so quick to give ourselves excuses—and perhaps just as quick to provide self-justification for the excuse—that I fear we seldom understand “why” we decide anything.

When an adult is repeatedly asked “why?” by a child, they inevitably get frustrated and angry, but… why? Why are we so scared to keep questioning ourselves and truly understand the reason for our answer?

“I don’t feel like doing it today, I’m in a bad mood.”


“Why?”


“I feel sick.”

Conversation over… but, why was one excuse more acceptable than the other? Why was a mental illness not sufficient but a physical one was? Do I even feel sick or was that just a lie because I knew you’d accept it? Maybe it wasn’t a lie so much as it was a discomfort with sharing the truth.

Why do I feel sick? Maybe because my diet for the past 11 months has consisted mainly of takeaway?

Why has my diet for the past 11 months consisted mainly of takeaway? Maybe because cooking was one of the few things my dad passed on to me and the thought of doing it without him here seems too painful?

Why do I feel the need to bring everything back to my dad dying? Maybe because it’s really fucked me up.

Alas, “I don’t feel like doing it today because I thought I was OK with my dad dying, but as time’s gone on I’ve realised how much I lost and some days the pain crushes me into the bed” seems a superfluous and somehow less believable excuse.

Maybe that could just be another discomfort with the truth. Maybe I don’t know myself well enough to understand why, but I’m trying.

Recently I’ve been questioning why I haven’t been active here. I wrote a poem that indicated my hope of being in the final stage of grief, but never shared it.

Why?

Maybe because it got rejected from a Medium publication and didn’t go down too well on a poetry site, and I became self-conscious and decided not to share it here, despite the knowledge that you—you wonderful being—have checked in to gauge how I’m doing.

Why?

Maybe because I want to just create and self-express, but sometimes I get confused. Maybe I don’t want to have to worry about commercial recognition or success.

Why?

Maybe because I’m not good enough? Maybe I fear that nobody outside of those that know me will enjoy my art, or maybe it’s a fear that those inside won’t enjoy it either.

Wait, why haven’t I been active on here?

Maybe it’s because I’m not happy. Maybe when I was posting here as well as writing scripts, taking pictures, and drawing, I was happy, and now I’m not.

Why?

The fear that nobody will like what I do… maybe.

Why does that matter?

To be honest, I don’t know.

All I’m trying to do is figure out who I am and why I’m feeling this way.

Maybe it’s the fact that I’m stuck in the grieving process, or maybe it’s another trauma. Maybe it’s anxiety, or depression, or another mental health issue they can throw medication at. Maybe it’s because I’ve been in pain for almost fifteen years and have been defeated and broken by the lack of answers and am desperately searching for pain relief by any means necessary.

Why haven’t I been active on here?

Maybe this project, whilst lifting me from one depression, has slammed me into another. Maybe I feel despair for being in this position in the first place, and acknowledging this part of my life is killing me. Maybe it’s gone on too long.

Why was I even active in the first place?

Maybe I set this whole project up as a reminder that my medication elevated my mood whilst distracting me from my pain. Maybe it distracted me from a bigger issue. Maybe as time went on, I developed a hatred for the project because it forced me to not be an idle observer in my own life and instead acknowledge my issues and deal with them?

Why haven’t I been active?

Maybe self-expressing and creating is counterproductive because once I’m done I have to go right back to life without medication; acknowledging my pain and sinking deeper.

Why am I doing it?

Maybe once I get it all out of my system, I’ll be taken seriously and consequently take myself seriously. Maybe I’ll finally be OK.

Why?

Maybe.

WHY? MAYBE
WHY? MAYBEProcreate

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