I’m writing. I’m confused. Nothing new here.

Don’t know if I’m not doing a good enough job, representing myself, representing people – or should I let go of Things That Happened and get on with Characters I Have?

I keep thinking that I’d not evolved enough to write this play. That the character – played, after all, by me – has a more interesting potential life that my own has ever been. So, er, I’m displeased with my own life, which hinders me writing? Certain things are ridiculous (ungrateful – unappreciative) when you write them down. Probably why I’m here.

Maybe I should give up on acting. I’m so busy being not-good-enough-me that it’s hard to represent anyone else. Even myself from the past/alternative future. There’s a fallacy in this not-good-enough-ism – I know it, even if I can’t cross over it just now.

My gender swirls around. I don’t want to be a woman. I don’t want to be a man. As a woman I’m wounded; as a man I’m erased. I’m more than that, but also other. Also the freak, yearning to be normal. Also burlesque, also a sexual self that is buried somewhere so deep down I can’t find it. I don’t want to find it, lately. I’m running in opposite direction. Almost thirty and still scared of myself.

Don’t know what to do. Read a lot to get away from myself. Exist in this slightly spaced out disconnected realm. Not a body, a floating brain. I look down at myself, high on loneliness.

I want this play to be warm. Connected. Imperfect. Real. The shame I feel is tainting all, cutting me off.

I could (have) write a play per day, if I let myself feel. I could, technically, finish this play in a week. If I let myself go that deep. If I dared to go that deep. It’s a prayer, at this point. I want to connect, want to love, be vulnerable, be not-alone, be understood. Be out of that shameful place. My self, listening, because I don’t believe in a higher power other than myself, trapped in mundanity, trapped in shame – o self, listening, watching, please breathe out. Please let me write my play. Even if I don’t want to be what I am, please let me move past the revulsion. Please let me write my play. And for the third time, please let me touch my own strength, determination, love – because what good am I, if I can’t do this? Please let me write my play.