I Dream of a Beautiful Day

A very personal, honest look at my ambitions and my internal struggle with depression.

I lie on my bed, the sun peeking in through the cracks of the blinds covering the window. I stare at the TV as it displays nothing. Several hours pass. I remain on the bed as if tied down by an anchor. So many thoughts pass through my head that it’s difficult to keep track, but I am always able to hold onto one constant; I am worthless.

For most of my teenage years and the entirety of my adult life, my brain has managed to cling onto that one crucial analysis of myself. Day after day, year after year, it becomes increasingly difficult to argue with this lingering state of mind. I have made several attempts to mould myself into a better person, most of which I believed would be successful. For every rebellious thought or action against the drowning feeling of hopelessness, however, there are ten counter-thoughts to shut me down again. So, I spend my days dreaming of the man I’d rather be, wishing away the man I am. At times I feel like a house on fire; trapped, and consumed by the flames of my incompetence.

I feel such hatred for myself so regularly that it often manifests itself into frustration towards other people. I find myself incapable of acknowledging that I am not truly myself in these outbursts until well after the fact, allowing myself the relief of blaming someone else for my deficiencies as a human being. Since they don’t know the things that are running through my head, I shut myself away so that no one else has to deal with my depression. Insecurity and a complete lack of self-worth compound my frustration and make me feel as though I am nothing more than a disappointment. These are things I’ve been desperate to say for the longest time.

My hands tremble a little as I struggle to put all these lifelong feelings into words, as I revolt against the ever-present sensation that this is just another meaningless attempt to alter that which is unchangeable. But this time is different; I cannot continue to allow this nagging pessimist in my head to dominate my every motivation. I am human, like anyone else, and this is something I need to recognise. This act of defiance is about more than just my personal life, however. In the last couple of years, I have made positive steps towards achieving my goal of becoming a writer, but not nearly enough and certainly not great enough. Even though I know I have some great ideas, I am yet to genuinely put myself in the public eye (no matter how small that eye may be) due to that heart-sinking thought; you’re not good enough.

I think my insecurity about having aspirations of being a writer may be my biggest issue. My depression takes those insecurities and turns them up to full volume. Anxiety creeps in, and I feel as though any attempt to put myself out there and show people what I can do is only going to bring me embarrassment. It’s strange because amongst all my thoughts I can sit back and objectively recognise that absolutely no one cares that I want to be a writer, and anyone who does isn’t worth my time. And yet here I am; stuck in a little cavern deep inside my head, hoping no one finds me.

All my insecurity and inability to act only makes it harder with each passing day to stand up for myself. The only writing I have done in the last twelve months has been purely for academic reasons. Any concept for a piece of writing that I’ve had in the last twelve months has remained just that. For so long I’ve seen it as nothing more than being lazy because that’s just how it is with me. It has taken me a long time to realise that there is so much more to it than that. The continuous internal melody of nothingness that plays in my mind causes my very passion for writing to rot away. That is why I decided to write this piece; not to garner sympathy, but to give myself a sort of personal certificate of authenticity. Something tangible that I can look to and use to remind myself that when I’m in the right state of mind, I am capable. A legitimate reason to write for my benefit. By writing this confession of sorts and putting it out there for others to see, I hold myself accountable to everyone, including myself, to write and put my work out there.

The biggest worry I’ve had with sharing my writing with people is the fear of it simply not being creative enough. Whenever I write that little voice in my head asks; what is it about your writing that makes you stand out? How are you different?  Even when I’m thinking straight, I can’t answer myself because I simply don’t have the answers. It becomes truly crippling. But what I do know, in spite of my depressed, cynical way of thinking, is that even if I don’t immediately stand out from the crowd, my writing is worth reading. Why? Because I love my work, and that is the only thing that should matter as an artist in any medium. If you can love and appreciate your work as a creative, others will eventually follow. As someone who has never been confident in my abilities in anything, it isn’t easy for me to say that I love my writing. To stand up and say that I’m not worthless, that I can do something great, makes my throat tighten and my hands shake. But why would anyone just take my word for it? No one should, which is why if I want to get anywhere, I need to start sharing my work.

By showing this piece to even one person, everything changes. Someone other than me will definitively know what’s going on inside my head. That is a daunting prospect, considering I have never shared any of this with even the closest people in my life. I shouldn’t have to cower in isolation because of the way my brain is wired. I have to be better than that. But writing one short essay about my feelings and insecurities isn’t going to change anything, there has to be a follow-on effect. For a long time, I have wondered what the next step is to start being proactive and to work towards a future that I can be proud of, regardless of what that little voice in my head is telling me. It’s time to step out from the walls I’ve built around my mind and start forging the man I want to be, rather than dreaming of him.