As you can probably tell by this post’s title, I’m getting right to the point today. I’ve written a lot about how brain fog negatively impacts my life. I’ve written about how it impacts my ability to perform even normal functions, nonetheless study challenging material or do the creative things that bring me joy. Besides its impact on my ease of learning and perceived intelligence in school (which I wrote a bit about here), I hate the way it makes me write. I hate that writing in and of itself is an impossible task many days, and even when it is possible, it is a fight. I hate how my writing reads after I force the stubborn words out. It feels clumsy and poorly written. It seems average at best, but not great. It doesn’t feel unique. It feels like it is missing a deeper meaning, that is is missing the use of some of my favorite literary elements that truly paint a picture and tell a story.
Even with school, whatever I write is just a typical paper. It’s well-researched, but it’s nothing special. It’s not poorly written, but it’s not great. It’s not as powerful a piece as it could be. I feel like the ability to really drive my point home is just beyond my reach, and it’s frustrating.
My limitations from brain fog present a dilemma. I cannot write, which hurts. It hurts to not do the things I love, and it can be isolating to keep my experiences to myself. But it is also hard to read my writing when I despise the words I see. It’s hard enough to sit down and try and get my brain to work, but to then not enjoy the fruits of that labor is exacting. It’s even harder if I’m trying to share a really important event through writing or address a difficult topic. I can’t find the words to truly express what I’m feeling, or what I was going through at the time, or why something affected me like it did. I have the drafts of a couple stories that feel like they’re eating me up inside, but I don’t feel like I can share them, because they don’t truly describe the experiences.
There’s no perfect choice, and the better decision has changed at different times in my life. I talked with my Mom about all of this last night, and after getting it all out, I think it might be better to tell my stories, as bland as they may seem to me. I hope that even though my writing may not be what I wish it was, it can still help someone. I pray that these ordinary words can be used for extraordinary good.