Life Purpose: Confusing

First of all, thank all of you who fave or ping back my blog entries. I greatly appreciate it. šŸ™‚ Thanks to all of you who like the words I’ve squeezed out into the world and offer encouragement. I don’t say it enough, so I’ll say it again: I appreciate you very much.

Here’s the thing. Whenever I read about life purpose and how to tell if something is or isn’t your life’s purpose, I want to scream and cry with frustration. I used to love writing. I couldn’t do it often enough. Maybe it’s distress and depression, but the fact is: writing has become something I dread. I dread it so much that I just don’t do it. I avoid it at all costs. When I do manage to do it, I squeeze out maybe a paragraph or two and then avoid it like the plague afterward. On top of that, I hate every word that comes out in the process of writing. It is like a chain around me that I just can’t escape. I am suffocating. I feel accomplished when I do get around to writing, but not because of the writing itself. I feel good about it because I’m giving in to the internal pressure that tells me that I’m worthless if I don’t write, like that’s the only way in the entire world that I can contribute to anything – ever. It’s even become my way of thinking: Well, I have no choice but to be a writer because that’s all I can do. It’s my only skill.

That isn’t even true, but it is how warped it’s become for me.

Then I think that maybe I’m just focusing too much on whether it’s good enough or not. Perhaps that’s what is causing this. I’m not sure yet.

I’ve even tried the, “If there was a fire and you could only save a few things, what would you save?” mental exercise. Let me tell you: my writing was NOT on the list. My laptop was not on the list. Even my Kindle didn’t come to mind, and I really enjoy that gadget. The same goes for the “stranded on a desert island” exercise AND the “if you could do anything…” exercise. Pretty much any mental exercise… writing does not factor in unless it’s a convenient side effect of what does show up.

It’s become obvious that I lost my passion and have been struggling not to let it die when that’s exactly what it seems to be doing. It’s become obvious that I’m resisting a necessary change and it’s time to stop fighting the inevitable.

So… I’m not sure what to do from here on out. I don’t know what my life’s purpose is. I plan to discover it, though. Maybe I’ll still write, but it can’t be tied to my identity as a person anymore.

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