Every time I sit down to write I become paralyzed.
My brain gets clouded. My heartbeat fills my ears. My hands shake.
I worry that in the year I spent writing awkward, overly-formal “copy”, I lost the ability to write anything that connects with people.
I’m supposed to be funny.
I turn anxiety into comfort and a few knowing laughs for people. If I can’t find joy in the wreckage, what’s the point?
The warm, sunny weather makes it worse. It feels like a personal affront.
I can’t even go outside, because the light-hearted conversations I used to have with neighbours have turned into word vomit about financial stress.
I don’t want to have to face them again.
I can’t get their reactions out of my head.
I clearly make people uncomfortable. No one wants to feel guilty about being in a better place when the world is melting. I know I didn’t when I was still employed.
And because it’s human nature to shut out anything that makes us feel icky, I worry that if I keep writing this blog in an honest way — something I started so we could all feel less alone in our issues — it will prevent me from finding another job.
It doesn’t matter how good my intentions are, how smart I am, how hard I work, or that I come up with damn good creative ideas. It matters that when you google my name, I was sad on the internet, and hiring managers don’t trust sad people.
But there are no jobs, so here you go.