This is me: it was early May, seventy degrees out, and I was wearing a winter scarf running down the sidewalk eating a slice of pizza while chasing a stray cat.
I spent April cycling through the same five Smiths songs that I’d listened to for a month and re-read Jane Eyre about fourteen times. Now it’s halfway through May and I’ve moved onto other lame things to avoid living.
When I started this blog, I wanted to write “relatable” stuff but now all I do is worry about how to start with a sufficiently appropriate college freshman throat-clearing statement. Like, for example, “Research reveals higher rates of depression among Covid patients.” And then and only then does one proceed with a short little history of one’s own depression.
I mention this because I caught myself doing that over and over, but what I really want to say is that I was very happy to be at home with Covid toward the end of March, but there was a moment in which I quite literally felt the depression descend upon my head. Ever since then I’ve struggled with the old feelings I thought I had put to rest. I just tell myself it’s a result of the illness but it’s so hard not to tear up at random, like when I’m riding in the car and I watch the scenery go by and wish I was there.
I’ve been neglecting blogging because my worries, shame, and laziness force me to push the “delete” key every time. It feels much safer to write in a notebook that, God willing, no one sees, which is something I try to prevent my parents from doing by moving things around periodically, preferably somewhere that it’s too much of a strain on their baby-boomer bodies to reach for. Although, hiding things out in the open is actually quite effective as well, believe it or not.
Yes, I’m thirty-three and have to hide my diaries from my parents. I suspect –hope– my mother hasn’t read them or she would have confronted me for sure.
I’ve been working on a story I’d very much like to share but I just can’t get the ending right. I was also writing a retail saga and I have yet to finish the final part but I feel it is spectacular.
The caption of the photo here indicates I was attempting a “liminal space” photo. I found this strange genre on YouTube randomly and I’m addicted to the videos. Here’s an example:
I think it’s one of those things you either get or you don’t. Basically they’re images of places like empty malls or scary indoor playgrounds that look like no one’s been there in years…. but might show up when you do. They’re not merely creepy but are meant to induce a sort of unsettling nostalgia.
They remind me strongly of what I see in my own dreams. I wonder what it’s like to close your eyes and open them in what feels like a moment later, because as soon as I fall asleep, I enter an eerie alternate universe in which I am endlessly aggravated by demands from work and family. ( I run into my boss often.) I am harassed and disturbed all night so when I wake up, I don’t feel like I rested at all.
I’m attempting to re-learn to lucid dream in the hope that I can calm things down a bit in my mind and find some peace. When I’ve done it in the past, I’ve only been able to hold on for a little while before I’m swept back up into the dream.
Blogger’s block has got quite a hold on me and it’s taking everything in me not to delete the whole draft. I do keep up well with writing privately in the aforementioned notebooks, along with a certain pile of crap I add to little by little, to the tune of forty thousand words. At this point, I write it mainly for my own enjoyment, as hard as that may be to believe.
I am happy to be able to say that I no longer allow days to go by between sessions, because it becomes a habit that must be done every day, or else I don’t feel right.
Along those lines, I’ve been working on the book The Artist’s Way with a blogger friend. We are doing it as accountability partners and I think it’s helped us to keep going despite the pesky tough times that pop up in all our lives. It’s a lot of work, and really this first pass through is just an introduction to the themes of the book.
I have discovered that most of my inability to progress is the sense of shame thrust upon me twenty years ago. I also waste way too much time. I waste time because I’m ashamed of myself and what I produce, and I’m ashamed of how I waste time. I don’t think I’ll make much headway until I crack this shameful nut.
I struggle with words because the epilepsy medication I take does not only slow down excessive localized activity, it slows down the whole brain… I have poor word recall and comprehension. It’s little short of devastating, because my vocabulary has deteriorated and my memory is very poor. I can’t understand papers I’ve written.
Meanwhile, my job has engulfed my very existence. Last year, when I was furloughed for three months and got to feel like myself again, I swore I’d never let my job steal that again. That lasted about three days when I came back, and ten months later, it’s no better. Something has to change because I don’t know how much longer I can live like this. But I don’t know how.
I’m sorry I’ve rambled on about myself, and my only hope is that if you read even a snippet of it, that you share something about what’s going on in your life, even if it’s only that you ate some Honey Bunches of Oats this morning with sour milk. I never intend to ask for sympathy, my objective is to hear about you.
So please, take my mind off of me and tell me about you.