Why isn’t it enough?
Why do I have this deep restlessness that can’t accept this life of mine and make the best of it?
Why can’t I just relax and enjoy life instead of being tormented by this constant gnawing sense that I am not doing what I am supposed to be doing?
Why is being me never enough?
Part of it is ambition throttled by indecision. I have a lot of pent up need to make my mark on the world, but without the ability to pick a path and stick to it, there is no way for that ambition to lead to action and hence release.
And part of it is the Machiavellian machinations of my malicious inner prosecutor. Part of me is always looking for ways to torment and punish me, and hounding me about all the things I could be doing but don’t is like, its favorite game.
Makes me wish I was one of those people who respond to being harrowed by their demons by throwing themselves into their work and achieving great success.
I mean, at least then I would get something out of this nonstop inner Blitzkreig.
And to be honest, it’s the only way I know how to live. Time and time again, I use this space to tell myself that there is nothing I am “supposed” to be doing and that just making it through the day is totally fine, and that this inner persecution is the very definition of counterproductive and that I would actually be more prouductive if I just relaxed and stopped attacking myself for a while.
And when I do that up as one of my nice little bold affirmations, I feel good for a while and I do my best to live that way but over time the old familiar terrible regime seeps back in to its old position and eventually I am right back to hating myself and playing video games incessantly to escape that self-hate.
And to escape the infinite hallway of infinite doors, and life in general.
Clearly, I need something to replace the inner prosecution. Otherwise the empty space it leaves will eventually be filled with the same old self-loathing and escapism.
But I don’t know what goes there. I just don’t. I can feel that this is a case of my depression blocking my ability to visualize a better solution but that doesn’t make the situation any easier.
Maybe I don’t need to know. Maybe I just need to imagine some benign substance – bubble soap, for instance – filling that cavity to keep it open until I figure out what the heck to put there.
So here it goes :
There is nothing I am supposed to be doing.
There is no “should” in my life.
The only thing I need to do is make it through the day with as much fun and as little pain as possible while doing my best to get better.
That’s all a sick person need worry about.
And even when I have not being doing so great at doing the things I need to do to get better, I am still okay,
I am a good person.
I love myself.
And some day, this will all be over.
More after the break.
Bummer in the morning, perkier at night
That seems to be the pattern lately, at least.
The morning – who am I kidding? the AFTERNOON – portion of my blog happens when I am groggy and sleepy and feeling emotionally raw and vulnerable.
That makes it a very good time to grab a piece of that emotional shrapnel that riddles my soul and give it a good hard tug.
This same principle explains why weird, uncomfortable. invasive medical procedures are always scheduled for some ungodly time early in the morning.
They want to get it done when you are too sleepy to be difficult.
As for my shrapnel, perhaps it’s due to early childhood exposure to M*A*S*H, but I have a very clear image in my head of me digging into my own flesh with forceps and painstakingly removing bits of jagged metal then dropping them into a surgical tray with a distinct “clink” sound.
A gruesome image to some, I supposed. I’m not squeamish that way.
In fact, I’ve never even been to Squeam. Or Gibber.
But to me, the image is quite comforting. It makes me feel like I am truly making progress at dealing with all my damage, even if it’s only a tiny bit at a time.
It’s hard to keep hope alive when progress is glacially slow. It would be easy to throw up my hands and then puke up my legs…. just kidding.
It would be easy to throw up my hands and say it’s hopeless, but I know better. When I look back at who I was even a year ago, I realize that I am far more awake and aware and alive than I was back then in June 2019, and that gives me my hope back.
The fact that you can’t see the hour hand of a clock move doesn’t mean that it isn’t moving, and all you have to do is stop watching for a little while then look back to see that this is true.
Besides, with every little fragment I extract, I can feel myself growing lighter and my star shines a little bit brighter.
And one day, I will reach a tipping point where enough of my burden will have been removed for lift to exceed drag and I will soar up into the sky to shine and shine and shine my warm rays of light and love to all the other lonely souls out there who have forgotten what it feels like to feel the sun on their face and be warmed.
That is my highest ambition. I want to create art that warms, encloses, and comforts others the same way good art did for me.
I want to use my talents to make art so good that it makes people feel better about life.
You know. In all modesty.
And the thing is, I know I can do it. I have this power. I have that knowledge.
The trick is to get myself to a place where I can make it all come true.
I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.