Had a mind to but not the heart

I try to write, and I get as far as opening my notebook and poising my pen. And nothing comes out.

I want to feel like a real writer, and I want to feel cute again, and maybe I think that if both of those come true, I'll feel like I deserve a boyfriend, and that I deserve to be happy.

Of course I want it all right now.

And yet I can't make myself do anything. I can't do the process. I want to. I just can't.

There's a wall in my head, and I stop before I crash into it. Everything I want is on the other side. But I just sit here, looking at it.

I think: I'm smart. I should be able to figure out how to be happy. But I try to think about it, and I'm at the wall again.

I can't write 'til I'm happy, and I won't be happy until I'm writing, and I think I have to get out of this town to even see where happy is. But I hate the waiting, and my brain that's supposed to be so smart and creative is absolutely mute about how to get out any faster. I'm stuck mentally in a place that has nothing in it except big black words on that white wall, and they say: I CAN'T STAND IT.

Maybe the problem is that Being A Writer is part of this big perfect life that I plan to have someday, and none of the pieces are in place; I can't even see where they are, or how I would put them together even if I had them. So I wait for things to happen to me, or for me, because I don't know how to make them happen for myself.

I don't know how to start moving again.