Writing Through Fear, Pain, and Self-Doubt: One True Sentence at a Time

I sit down to write.

I don’t want to. Not today. I don’t have it in me.

Why am I even doing this? It’s fucking hard, and I don’t know what I’m doing.

Besides the fact that there’s nothing in the tank today, I’m empty.

This is a waste of time.

I go back to what I always go back to in these moments of crippling doubt.

I’m doing this to help one person.

I don’t know who that one person is, only that I know, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that they exist.

I know, in a world of 7.88 billion people, there is someone, somewhere, who feels right now, at this moment, how I once felt.

Lost. Afraid. Alone.

Enveloped by shame to the point of feeling the seductive whispers of escape through breathing one’s last breath.

Chasing money with no purpose, drifting aimlessly on autopilot, desperately wanting more but not knowing how to move forward.

I write for them.

Only one problem, though, the tank is still empty. I can have all the motivation in the world, but how can I go anywhere without gas in the tank?