When You’re Invisible Even to Yourself: A Writer’s Breakdown (and a Nap)

Have you ever had one of those fleeting, deep conversations at a party with someone whose name you never caught? One of those weird, intense, late-night talks where you bare your soul over a plastic cup of flat soda, and then—poof—they’re gone. By morning, you barely remember their face, let alone what you said. That person? That’s me.

I’ve come to the glorious realization that I am deeply, profoundly forgettable. And honestly, I’ve made peace with that—or at least I thought I had. I’ve always told myself I preferred solitude, that I was born to be a loner. But lately, I’m starting to wonder if that was just a nicer way of saying people don’t really stick around for me. I don’t land on people’s radar. I don’t even ping their emotional Bluetooth. I’m the ghost at the dinner table, and I don’t even need a haunting backstory.

And here comes the part of the blog post where I tell you something I’ve been avoiding: I think I might be giving up on writing. Not this blog—this little corner of the internet where I dump my thoughts like a one-man cleanup crew after an emotional hurricane—that I’ll keep. But the rest of it? The novel dreams, the story outlines, the book drafts collecting dust and existential dread? I don’t know anymore.

Let’s be real. This site gets about as much traffic as a goat path in the Bermuda Triangle. If it were a landmark, it’d be a rock in the middle of the Pacific during a hurricane, shrouded in fog, ignored by Google Maps and the gods. My podcast? Gets about as many listeners as an opera singer performing at a school for the deaf. And don’t even get me started on my newsletter—people actually unsubscribed. Not in droves, mind you, because that would require a crowd. Just one by one, like little acts of personal rejection delivered straight to my inbox.

So, if no one’s reading these blogs, who in their right mind is going to want to read a whole book by me? Maybe my writing is just… bad. Maybe I’m shouting into the void in a language no one speaks anymore. Or maybe I’m just having a really shitty day.

And before anyone gets the wrong idea—this isn’t a cry for compliments. I tried turning comments off for this post, but it won’tlet me. I don’t need pity applause or well-meaning affirmations. I’m not depressed. I’m not planning a dramatic exit. I’m just… tired. Tired of creating in a vacuum. Tired of feeling like I’m pushing a boulder uphill only to find out it’s made of my own self-doubt.

So, yeah. Right now, people suck. Life sucks. Algorithms suck. And I want to take a rowboat to an island with no Wi-Fi and take a nap under a tree like some emotionally wrecked cartoon character. Maybe when I wake up, it’ll all make sense. Or at the very least, it’ll be quiet.

Ever feel like you’re screaming into the void too? Subscribe for more real talk from someone who gets it—no toxic positivity, just brutally honest rants with a side of chronic illness and dark humor. No pressure. Just vibes.