Fru’s Greatest Hits Volume 2, for one.
Yes, we are back at this subject. The feeling that I am not doing what I am supposed to be doing, without having the slightest idea what I am actually supposed to be doing.
Maybe it’s just the way my mind interprets my long-term background general anxiety level. I am anxious, therefore there must be some reason I am anxious, and the easiest and most basic answer is that I am not doing something I should be doing.
But outside of school, I have never known what I am supposed to be doing. It’s like my whole existence has been spent in life’s waiting room, and playing video games all the time is my version of leafing through the magazines.
I have always lacked direction. A lot of us dreamer types have that problem. That mystic realm inside us where we spend most of our time is great for the imagination.
The Doug Henning types in the 70’s got that right at least.
But it’s lousy for ambition, Why by ambitious when you always have your candy colored dreamland to retreat into? Why go out there into the real world to compete for what you want when you would rather stay peaceful and avoid conflict and make do with whatever you happen to find?
Why paddle when you can drift? Merely for the option to steer? Nah.
Easier just to drift through life, going nowhere, doing nothing, calm and serene and completely hating your goddamned stupid fucking life.
Because fuck the path of least resistance, man. It sucks. I want things. Real, actual things that will never drift into my life. The only way to get them is to wake up, get dressed, and go out into the world and do things.
And that’s where the bullet really hits the bone. (Ow. ) I can have all the big fanciful dreams I want. I can hatch brilliant ideas by the dozens. I can formulate big beautiful theories. I can have all the startlingly original insights in the world and develop my understanding of the world to century-spanning guru levels.
And none of it means a goddamn thing because I am afraid of reality. Reality, with all its physical, emotional, and social stimulation that overwhelms me. Reality, where actions have consequences and things can be scary or weird or uncomfortable because they are not products of my own mind and at any second, I might become too hot or tired or sleepy or anxious or even horny out of nowhere and there’s no predictability.
Quite frankly, I’ve never been a fan.
But that’s where all the stuff I want is to be found. A job, a man, my own place, being able to support myself, new vista to explore, and of course, SEX.
I am getting very tired of flying solo.
So I end up feeling like I am on the top floor of a burning building and the flames keep getting higher and higher and I know the only chance I have is to jump out my window and land in the net below but I am too scared to do it.
So I keep telling myself, I don’t absolutely have to do it now. I have time. It can wait.
But one day that won’t be true any more. My time is running out. The place is burning down and one day it will collapse out under me and I will die cursing myself for not doing much of anything with my life.
And I know this.
And yet I still can’t jump.
More after the break.
Let’s take another stab at the original point of this dang thing.
Without the feeling of not doing what I am supposed to be doing, my life stops making any sense. Sad but true.
I think part of the reason I haven’t been able to get past my reality aversion via this feeling like I am failing is that deep down, I know that if that feeling away, I would have to really face reality and the mind-shattering nightmare that is figuring out what to do.
The world is so big and there are so many possibilities. I feel crushed by the magnitude of choice. There is no way to solve that problem via reason.
For normal, healthy people, this problem is solved by desire. Drive. They have some idea of what they want out of life and that points then towards a destination.
Either that, or they just do what they think is expected of them. But that’s a whole other thing and I don’t wanna go there.
It pertains, however, because I never, in my life, had any idea what was expected of me. Nothing, basically. To have expectations of me, my family would have had to both give a shit what happened to me and paid attention to me for more than five seconds, and both of those are clearly ludicrous ideas, absurdly beyond the incredibly tiny budget of attention and care they allotted me.
Like i have said before, I wasn’t raised so much as allowed to stay, as long as i stayed out of the way and didn’t remind people of my existence.
From that angle, it totally makes sense that I have this feeling of not doing what I am supposed to be doing. On some level, I am still waiting for instructions.
Or a hint, even.
Back to desire : in order to go that route, I would have to get in touch with my emotions and drives and urges, and there is a hell of a lot of snow packed road between me and that distant destination.
Once more, it all comes back to my thawing the fuck out. Tapping into the volcanic substrate of my unexpressed id and using it to geothermally melt the glacier sitting smack dab right on my chest, over my heart.
Like I’m some kind of metaphysical Icelander.
But of course, it ain’t that easy. Nothing ever is.
Being me is like, really hard, y’all!
I wll talk to you nice people again tomorrow.