A Revelation of Sorts...

I've noticed that when I get inspired or have found a particular muse for something, I tend to seclude myself. I hole up in my room and only come downstairs to eat, shower (I have a half bath in my room), and to make the occasional appearance between bursts of creativity to make sure they know I am still alive.

I feel bad for doing this, but it's what I do. It's how I can be creative, I guess. I hate it, but at the same time I love it. I love being on my own, but I feel guilty for it at the same time because I know that my parents don't like that I'm just holed up in my room. I think they feel that I'm secluding myself because I am angry or something, but really it's just because I'm inspired, and when I'm inspired I like to hash that out, and for some reason my bedroom tends to be that zone of comfort where I can unleash it all.

I have tried going downstairs and sitting in the living room with them, to try to make them feel like I'm not ignoring them or that they did something wrong, but that ruined the inspiration. I couldn't write even if I starred at the page for four and a half hours. It just didn't work.

So, that night when they went to bed, I went upstairs because I don't like being in the main part of the house alone at night, and it suddenly clicked and I was up until 2 AM writing my fingers off.

I don't know if it is the familiarity and the freedom I feel in my bedroom that I can easily get my creativity out better, or if it's the outside distractions/obligations I feel toward my family. I don't know, but I dislike it.

I think it's that I have to alone. All alone with music playing as loudly to drone out my surroundings so that I can get lost in the worlds I am splattering across the computer screen and the paper I write upon.

I feel like they're getting fed up with me keeping to myself, but I'm not meaning to at all. It started with me not feeling well, so I laid in bed for most of the day, and they didn't seem upset about that, but then that rut just continued for the rest of the week.

I know that they're upset or whatever now because they've dropped hints about me keeping to myself in my room for days. I sometimes wish that I had the bedroom downstairs because then I wouldn't feel so distant from them and I could more easily be right there and feel like I'm fulfilling the role of a daughter.

But at the same time, I don't care because I'm actually back to writing after a long period of not doing so and that tore me up because I felt like I had failed myself, and now that it's back, I feel like I've failed myself and my family.

And there really is no point to this journal, and there is no desire for a response. It is just a way to get some of the thoughts and concerns for my well-being/my family off my mind so that I can live again. Maybe even try to balance this inspiration with my family.