What if this book doesn’t do as well as the last one? What if it flops? Doesn’t matter. What matters is that I’m giving it everything I have. My all. Every single word. I am better for it, and therefore, I believe that you who read it will be better for it.
I’ve been reading a lot of Kamal Ravikant’s work. He writes the way his mind speaks. It’s really quite beautiful.
Kamal talks so openly. He talks about friends who have killed themselves. Talked about his company tanking. How he almost wanted to kill himself.
This is a man who’s been writing books about happiness. And while reading his books I’ve thought back to Brené Brown’s work on vulnerability. Be vulnerable. Happiness comes from opening yourself.
I’ve become too focused on like’s. I’ve tried not to — reading Jeff Goins book about writing, my entire goal was to not become obsessed with what reader’s think. You create great work by writing what you feel most deeply, and someone will connect with that. But it’s a paradox: you can’t write what you feel most deeply if you care what your reader’s think. But once you start writing deeply, you gain readers. Which makes you want to write for them.
I always try to grow. And so whenever I feel fear before sharing something about myself, whenever I feel fear about doing something daring, I say, Oh, the fear is here. This means I’m on the right path. If I don’t do this thing now, I’ll regret it.
I always try to push myself. And so, while reading Kamal’s work, I thought to myself, how can I push myself now? How can I be open, loving, and bare?
And I thought. What if I just list all my insecurities. For the world to see. I will only grow from it. No matter if there are mean words or praise for my openness. Or maybe no one will read it. I can only grow from it.
So here we are.
Maybe I’m a selfish bastard because I’m doing what to do; traveling and not going to college right away. Perhaps I’m a terrible person because I really don’t like who my mom is – she’s unhappy and if we’re the five people we spend the most time with, then she needs to be cut out. Or at least I can’t be close with her.
My brother committed suicide when I was twelve. I don’t feel much about it anymore and that makes me feel guilty. That’s one thing I choose not to feel. Once thoughts and memories start to come, I force my mind blank. I don’t like being in hospitals anymore because of that. Reminders.
I hypocritically remark on people in my head if I see they’re too focused on social stature and others’ approval, but then I act the same way; I’ll act like the ‘bro’ who parties way too much. I’ll act aloof so people think better of me.
I think maybe if more people envy my life, I’ll be happier.
I worry I’m not good enough for friends, a girlfriend, or making money. When my girlfriend and I first started dating I was worried she would leave me because I didn’t see why she’d want to stay.
This is coming from a confident and social guy. It goes back to my brother — someone who was supposed to be with me forever, and then left.
I’m not as good a writer as I think.
I’m feel I’m not worthy of other’s love.
I’m insecure that sometimes I can say dumb words. Especially when I’m stoned or tired. I try to make people comfortable – so many people have social anxiety – and if I’m tired that ends in me just saying words I’m not thinking about. An example, last week – it’s July – I asked my friend if he was still tuning ski’s at the ski resort. He just looked at me like I was retarded.
Maybe I won’t end up fulfilled.
Maybe rather than the story of happiness I envision for myself, I will end up in ruin. Instead of coming back from my trip a ‘profoud’ person, I come back changed not at all. And I’m a year behind at university. And I end up poor, unhappy, and like every old person I’ve ever met. Having a lot of shit. Drinking too much. Getting pissed off at every customer service representative they can get their hands on. They’re not mad at the customer service; they’re just unhappy.
And I’m insecure that through all my writing and reading and self-searching, I’m not as profound as I think. And by writing these pieces – showing how I feel about my mother, and older or middle-aged people – I just come across as an asshole.
But.. It can only help me grow. If no one reads this, at least I wrote for myself.
Help send me to Southeast Asia! Here’s the link to my gofundme page, any help is appreciated. And if you send me your email, I’ll write you a personal note thanking you for your contribution