If You Can Have Another Drink, You Can Write Another Paragraph

UPDATE: 7/12/22 - This story has sat in my drafts for a good while, and I had completely forgotten about its existence. I hardly remember writing it, but it definitely spoke to me. Since I initially wrote this piece, I am in a much better place, and it's nice to have this as a reminder of how far I've come, even though it may at times seem as though I haven't made much progress at all.

I have not, however, been pumping out stories, like, at all. and this under-worded story that was submitted for review and rejected, not being seen by anyone but myself, has truly inspired me. Admittedly, without shame, I am writing this update to make this piece publishable so that others can see it. I'm not super concerned about the reads or funds it garners, but I feel like I can't add to anything I'd said when I initially wrote it, because I'm in a completely different head space these days (Aside from still working entirely too much).

Subsequently, writing an update like this feels kind of new and interesting to me, and I think it's a fresh way to tell a story, almost like I'm reviewing my own submission before you, the reader, have had a chance to lay eyes on it. Hopefully, with this post actually being published, I will be inspired to be more active and involved in not just the Vocal community, but the writing community as a whole. It has become clear to me that I lost that part of who I was for a while, and I want it back. So, all filler aside, I hope that you enjoy and gain some kind of insight from this oddly laid out story from a while ago. Thanks in advance, I know that my attempt to stretch this thing out is obvious, which is why I'm being completely transparent about it.

Anyway, enjoy.

-Brett

Oh, hello there. Forgive me, I didn’t recognize you at first. Probably because this is my first time appearing on Vocal, or writing at all, for that matter, in several long months. Instead, I’ve been busy spending my time distracting myself with less-constructive (and more destructive) outlets, like working 7 days a week only to further numb my senses by drinking until I’m a slurring, stumbling disaster.

If you’ve read some of my other stuff, you probably know that I’m in no way a stranger to depression, and often try to cope using ineffective and downright unhealthy mediums, instead of the productive ones that genuinely have a lasting positive effect, which, for whatever reason, I tend to hide from myself when things get tough and I get vulnerable.

Things came to a head this evening, and as I’m writing this, I have no idea of the direction I’m going. Sometimes, you just have to get it out, ya know?

For me, whether it be a piece of fiction, a clickbait-esque, list-type article, or something personal like this piece, writing always makes me feel better. This is something that I actively know, but when I go through these bouts of insanity, it’s like my desire to write or be creative in any other type of way is on a high shelf out of reach next to my ability to clean my apartment, and I don’t have a ladder. Why is that?

It always seems to take a little bit of force, but eventually, I come around. I know that if I really push myself, I’ll be pumping out stories just like I used to. Honestly, I’m feeling better already.