How do I even…?

Writing something online feels a little like shouting from a mountain top and hoping that somebody will answer you. Except that there are billions of people on that mountain top and everyone is shouting and hoping that someone will answer and some people have megaphones. So far i have only listened with my mind almost exploding because of all the yelling hoping that someday I would be able to shout something that someone would hear. today is not that day. Today is the day I feel like I want to start a blog but because I don’t know how and I don’t know if I should pay money for that, I am writing an online journal into the depths of the internet where nobody looks just to get some words out of my cluttered mind.

I have no idea why or what for. All I know is that I have been stuck for a very long time without getting words out. And I need to get words out. But I don’t know where to start. Or how to start.

So I start with a letter I wrote to a person I don’t know.

Dear Jenny.

I only just discovered you and your writing so I’m kinda really late to the party and I feel like everybody knows everybody already and I’m just watching, not knowing how to….get in.
My mind is buzzing, but that’s normal. What is not normal is that I am writing. That is something that I haven’t done in a really long time, even though I used to call myself a writer, or at least wanted to call myself that, until I just stopped writing because who the hell cares what I write? Nobody, that’s who, and since my head has been completely emtpy for the last couple of years anyway there hasen’t even been something to write about. Which is sort of sad because in my teens I spent hours everyday writing stories and poems and essays and it made me feel like at least I was doing something, at least I was creating something and I felt that despite my depression self-loathing I had a purpose and I could bring something into the world.
I don’t really have that anymore and that kinda sucks.

It was only about two weeks ago, that I stumbled upon Furiously Happy. Initially I just wanted some light entertainment to listen to while cleaning up my apartment. Now I’m trying to read everything you have ever written on your blog and to be honest you are making my cry like every twenty minutes at least. That is not meant to be an insult. I’m just on that place right now.
I know that probably a million people have said that to you, but you reach me. I mean, I know  that’s  intended and sort of the point of what you’re doing but it’s still fascinating to me.
The wonderful thing about the internet is that people can connect without even having to leave the house.  Yes. I get that. But here’s the thing: I can’t even do that. I want to, I try to, but I can’t. I constantly talk like I’m writing  a blog in my head but the words never come out. Even on the internet I don’t reach out. Why would I, when I constantly feel like nobody would care. There’s billions of people out there. I wouldn’t make a difference. Why would anybody listen to me.

And now here I am staring at this wonderful community that you and all these people have created and you tell me that I am not alone and that we are all in this together and I break down crying because I don’t even know how to connect with people online. There is this whole world that people use to not be alone and here I am thinking: “Who the hell would care if I tweeted anything. How are you even supposed to do this? What’s instagram for?”
I have a million things to say. I want to write again. Why can’t I get myself to do it? Just because I think nobody would be interested? How will I ever know if anyone would be interested in what I have to say if I don’t even try?
Why am I even writing this?
I dont know. I’ve been thinking from the very first word of this that I have no clue what I am going to do with this. Bother you with an email? Save this on my computer and never look at it again? Post in as a comment on your blog in the desperate hope that someone will say to me? Would it even be okay to occupy your space like this?

I don’t even really have a point. Except maybe that I this is the first page that I have written in a very long time and just putting words together right now is sort of a small triumph. And it’s because of you. You are impressive. You are amazing. You are helping me fall asleep by reading me your books and you are giving me something to concentrate on when the voices in my head say horrible things to me.

Thank you for that.

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