As is tradition, the thing formerly at the back of my mind has been steadily making its way up to the front again, so here I am; long overdue, as always. With zero discipline, getting things done in a manner not too dissimilar to writing a response to an email you should’ve sent months ago. Still feels stupid, but it’s not like it’s going to matter any less if I wait long enough (or at least my naïvety and residual childhood innocence is leading me to believe that). Generally, caring hurts.
For whatever reason — for better or worse — I still do.
While writing these is absolute torture (as is reading them, I assume - who am I kidding?), the alternative feels orders of magnitude worse. It creeps up on me every single time because I’ve just never been all that careful. But I suppose that’s the point, right - it just has to get done, and if it feels like there’s an elephant sitting on your chest, too bad. It’s hard to get anywhere otherwise. If it were easy, why even bother?
That’s something to take note of.
Guilt is a weird one. If you’re unfortunate enough to follow me online (hi, sorry), you may be aware that for years now, all I’ve been really able to think about was why in the fuck everyone else was so productive while all I could seemingly do was anything but that. Never outside my head, always ruminating in a corner somewhere. Running in circles, amygdala fully hijacked. Killing, and slowly being killed by, time.
Marinating in your own little first world problems is strangely addictive.
You would think I’d figure it out sooner. Unfortunately, for some of us, it takes a year of substance abuse, sleepless nights, meltdowns and, well, ideations, to make shit click. Whatever it takes not to turn around and face the reality that you so desperately need to face. Just put on OK Computer, break out the milligram scale, and convince yourself for yet another evening that you’re not meant to treat yourself like a human. Let your brain tell you that maybe it’s not supposed to get better, then lose yourself in time and space for a while, succumbed to something you never intended to turn into a habit in the first place. Anything not to be present. Come Saturday morning, cue hollowness. Watch out for eye contact when passing the bathroom mirror.
The party’s been over for a long time.
What got old is how it never got old. Thank god. While it’s nice, every once in a while, to watch a Ghibli film of your choice on a tab just to remind yourself that you’re still there, to steal a quote: ‘If you get the message, hang up the phone.’
Maybe I should start listening.
So yeah, I’ve been going to weekly therapy sessions for a couple of months now. Remarkably human of me, I know. Never said I wasn’t stubborn. Turns out, the rules apply to me as they do to everyone else, even if I didn’t want to admit it. I won’t bore you with my twisted villain origin story, but suffice to say, if you’ve gone through your whole life feeling worthless and alienated from the rest of the world, something is probably behind it. I’m not that special, and whatever has to manifest is going to manifest, in whatever ways it has to. In retrospect, predictably. Oh well…
‘What’s on your mind today?’
It’s been — understandably — tough, and while I’m still far from fixed (obviously), I can confidently say that all I want now is to heal and move on. To finally let go of everything - the past, the hurt, the anger, the obsessive perfectionism, you name it. It’s high time I start thinking about something or someone other than myself. Really ought to know better by now, that’s for sure. Being a victim will get you nowhere. Ask around. Ask me.
They say your twenties are an appropriate time for fucking up, so I guess this is me cashing all of that in. No need for headroom; I’m not that exciting.
As far as the work is concerned (I’m gonna have to talk about this, aren’t I), I don’t know what the future holds. I used to think not being motivated meant I didn’t have it in me to pursue what I’d always felt I needed to pursue, but now I realise that that’s not true. Motivation and fun aren’t really essential to fulfilment, so while I may not be able to experience those, I obviously still care, and that’s what matters. In addition, I’ve come to the conclusion that I will probably genuinely go insane unless I find something else to pursue, so I wouldn’t feel bad to start making things again just for that reason alone. I now realise that, whether I like it or not, I really don’t have a choice - I’ll never feel ready, so why waste time with guilt? Other than still having dreams, there are a lot of things I should be more grateful for. The ideas are there, that’s for certain. I don’t think it’s going to get easier, and I’m fine with that.
No promises this time. I learned my lesson.
(see: The War of Art.)
When I moved into my current place, one of the things I was greatly enchanted by was the presence of a sort of lift-up cabinet in my kitchen. Grab handle, lift hand upwards, take out relevant glassware, grab handle, move hand downwards - that sort of thing. Initially, it was magical. Over time, not so much - as you might’ve guessed, the damn thing, being spring-loaded and whatnot, would eventually begin to plummet in the direction of your skull every time you’d let go of it. At first, my friends and I found this amusing - whenever an unsuspecting guest would come over, they’d have to deal with a death trap as soon as they’d dared go fetch a glass. One day, a year or so later, the reality of this thing posing an actual risk became apparent. 30 seconds or so of googling revealed that the fix would take two minutes.
I invite you to make of that what you will.