Sometimes I really wish my life was a B-grade 80’s horror flick, and then I look outside and get really worried it’s one of those depressing documentaries PBS makes that has really unnerving humanist undertones and you get so angry at this you clench your jaw and growl and throw your hands up in an exasperated “well, that’s 45 minutes wasted.” But on the bright side, that was also 45 minutes of figuring out what movies you really don’t like watching. I like the movie showing right now, at least so far.
For a minute, I became an obsessive journal writer.I still don’t know what that means about me and I feel oddly and unnecessarily annoyed by it. To quote Didion, “I’m not sure if any of it matters for my purposes.”
I also didn’t write because I didn’t want writing to turn into writing about depression. The past year and a half of my life have really been about coming to terms with the fact that I am a depressed person. I can deal with that now, which actually makes me quite happy and feel way less sad. It’s also been about becoming ok with writing things about me.
I was becoming very terrified of writing. I found that what I had always enjoyed as a kinetic process was turning into a process by which I would force myself to expose pieces and bits of myself that weren’t ready be exposed. Does that make it (the act of writing) “Art”? Am I forcing myself to this brink because of an anxious curiosity about the state of _______ and how it affects me? What I internalize? I think of Whitman: “I contain multitudes, do I contradict myself?”
I contradict and undermine myself and my intentions on a daily basis. It’s like going through all of the stages of grief at least once a day. My routine is amplified by this and at times I feel crippled. A giant idiot, selfish little thing. That’s really it. The littleness of me that is so annoying. Like a baby or something of the that ilk, so small. So unsustainable.
Mad at myself. Embarrassed. Do I need to have people see what I do for anything to be considered made? Must things be seen to be considered output? Is production defined by observation? Why do I need to prove something to an audience? The thing I hate the most about myself is my obsession with not knowing how to be a person. It’s difficult to write these sort of confessional things because I feel like a narcissist.But I’m not about to pretend to be somebody else. HA!
Don’t we already do that anyway? Isn’t being oneself sort of like pretending? Fake it until you become it, right?
When I write these days, my hand shakes the way a frail tree surrounded by a heavy snow does. It scratches the paper the way branches tremble in the air, and I am groping for the right words, the roots panicked for ground.
I’m thinking more and more that I have become a person who must force themselves: I must force myself to do everything. I have so many dreams and desires and these are what seem so “unforceful” (allow me to force language) to me. Dreams seem like things I tell myself to remind myself there’s a something I can have. But I don’t have it. I have to force myself to have– this is what they call drive I suspect.
I am obsessive. I am undermining. Just scanning this, it reads so “oh woe is me.” Aggressive, much?I want to like things and I want to give up on it all. I dislike it all. Get embarrassed and destroy, that sounds cathartic.
I started writing because it was the only thing that I felt and believed was ever really powerful. And I don’t want to be afraid of that anymore. When I’ve talked to other friends who write, I feel so jealous of their ability to create; their dedication. When for so long, for me it was about harnessing, and passing.
True to form, I’ve always been a late bloomer and an inadequate lover. Writing became intimate and that was scary and I wanted to resent writing for it. I never really loved it, at least not the way you read about other people loving writing. A mode of expression, release. It’s vomiting for me. Heart palpitations. Cold feet, second thought, a bias,too many adjectives.This is death! Ugh, and it’s so annoying.
I’m going to watch this movie through. it will be about hate, and a garden, being “hungry after you’ve just eaten.”
It will be a force, and I am going to let it push me like it wants to.