When all else fails, take a notebook, a pencil (or a pen, because years later a pen is less likely to have smudged, at least a ball point or a sharpie is), and start writing.
Write in a cold quiet corner of the room full of coats at Thanksgiving in an apartment full of people for whom conversation is coming easier than it comes for you.
Write in the middle of the night in the dark hotel room.
Sneak into the bathroom and write for a few minutes when you will not be missed.
And later, when you have nearly forgotten that you took that time to write, go back and read your story.
Because despite everything, every heavy-handed metaphor and each awkward bit of dialog, you see that you are a writer, in some way, you are a writer, and you are meant to write.
Keep that notebook going. Fill it and then get another one. Make the stories in it real if you have to, if that will fuel you to write more.
You are a writer. In some way. At this time. You are a writer.
You are living. Write it.