#with bpd

(Or, how a writer has learned to spit in the faces of her doubters.)

writes a very old headcanon I made up months ago, meant to be used in my longfic

Hmmmm.... making this a short flashback doesn’t do it justice.

starts writing a different fluff piece that is meant to be the next update.

This doesn’t fit in this collection at all. Like at all. It’s way too different from the rest.

switches both stories

Well awesome. That works.

finishes old headcanon piece

Why the hell does this read so ugly? Oh yeah, that’s why.

deletes piece and starts all over again

It’s still so damn empty of symbolism and parallelism and everything that make my stories mine.

looks for a Disney movie to watch.

Seems like I’ll have to watch two this time for one!

rewrites old headcanon story for the third time

I just... don’t like it for some reason. Oh God, here I go again. Better ignore what I’m feeling and keep going. Just keep swimming. Just walk forward. I can’t afford to fall apart another time.

rewrites story for the fourth fucking time

Why do I feel so anxious and miserable with this?

Oh I know why. Because there are people out there who think my fluff isn’t good enough for them. They get off on comparing me to others as proof of how I fall short. So in essence, every time I venture into this territory, I am reminded of how my writing is worth the same as the excrement of a bull. So instead of feeling adventurous, happy, and free to explore my possibilities, and safe enough to scrutinize my own writing without gutting myself, I am left dealing with my worst symptoms (because you simply cannot manage three mental disorders without one tripping another, it’s impossible). Each and every time. It’s been this way since May.

WELL GUESS WHAT MOTHERFUCKERS. I’M STILL ALIVE.

... really, most of what I have learned from writing my fluff is to despise people who dislike it. Even when I scrutinize, there’s nothing fucking wrong with it. I therefore really don’t deserve to manage such severe mood swings every time when I should be feeling okay, safe, and supported. The amount of defense I have to put up just to take care of myself is just so fucking bad. Well, since I haven’t killed myself yet, I’ll continue writing to spite them the fuck off. 

In other words, lessons on what happens when a writer consistently has to deal with a serious disorder, among two others that are delicately symptomatic. And in more differently words of tired splendor and grandiose melodrama, lessons on why you should appreciate the work writers put into their stuff. Especially if you write, too, and want to be the asshole that compares people - because most likely your work is just as shitty as mine. ;)