I want to self-sabotage. I want to ruin everything and make sure there is no hope. I admit that. I don’t want this to work; for once I want the failure, if only for a reason, a little shove.
My mom was giving me a long talk this morning, the kind that is supposed to be comforting. She was telling me what I should do, I got annoyed, and said something like, “Yes, I know”, which prompted her to say some words, that at the time, I took the wrong way.
“You always make so many mistakes.”
A long pause.
“Why, because I’m a fucking failure?”
I said it out loud, I said it. I said it in that bitter, if-you-only-knew voice, and smiled grimly even though I knew I sounded childish. Of course she says she didn’t mean it that way. She makes the point that I always come back after doing something and talk about what I should have done, that I should try to be more prepared this time, since I always forget what I’m supposed to say or ask.
Yes, because I can’t get anything right. I know. You wouldn’t believe how acutely aware I am of it.
It was just not the time to say it, not at all. I felt like it was all glaring back at me, laughing, mocking me. Sometimes I think the past is what kills me, more so than the future. It seems to transcend time and taint any positive thoughts I have left. I let it get to me, because in some ways, I feel it’s what I need to force myself to make some sort of move and end my idleness. I play it over and over because I want to drive myself crazy. I want to snap. I want to look at the world as more vile and ugly than anything else, and see not a single redeeming quality in it. Just to make it easy. Just to make it worth leaving, even if it isn’t entirely true. I’d use a lie if it could make it simple. I’d end as a hypocrite, quite contentedly.
I went to the city, did what I needed to do. Put resumes and cover letters in everywhere. I stopped by the Humane Society, put in an application and filled out some other papers so that they might call on me to volunteer sooner or later. It was very difficult at first, walking in, asking, when I feel so fucking inadequate. I have so much trouble just talking to people. And the more time I spend alone, locked away in this room with all the curtains drawn and the sunlight chased out, the more I let it take its hold.
But the numbness has grown worse as I predicted, and for whatever reason, after the first few times of approaching yet another customer service desk, it didn’t make my hands shake. I was nervous, but it was very diluted and vague, not quite the tangible thing I’m accustomed to. Instead, there was mostly tiredness and a voice in my head that told me darkly, that it is all so pointless. That voice of pitiless truth. Maybe that was why I managed to go through with it.
There always reaches a point where exhaustion is far surpassed, and a strange residual weariness sets in. Instead of walking, you slow to a crawl, dragging your feet, dreading every single step, almost counting them. I always tell myself when I start running, “Just imagine how much it’s going to hurt the further you go”.
I’ve kind of given myself a secret ultimatum. I don’t really like where either option leads, but these days I don’t seem to like much of anything to begin with. I feel like I am sort of at this turning point; perhaps it’s age, but nothing to do with legality or anything of the sort, just an inner feeling I can’t fully put into words. Compelled, is close to what I mean. I’m being drawn in toward something, or maybe subconsciously I am pushing myself in this direction. I think I want black and white, which I know isn’t all that possible, but in this case, it is, oddly enough. I’ve made it that way. I was afforded this one piece of control, this one meaningless life to fuck up if I so choose.
I was irritable beyond belief for most of the day (my mom got the brunt of it, unfortunately), and putting on a fake smile made me grind my teeth. It took all day to get everything done. But everyone was very friendly; I didn’t meet one person who was rude or who wasn’t willing to help, which was a very pleasant change. When I finally did finish, I was in a better mood because I hadn’t any reason to be angry with what went on. It wasn’t what I expected, and though I had no appetite, I did not feel as ill as I had expected. I wanted nothing all day but for it to be over and night to fall again.
Done, for now. And night has indeed come.
Sounds like you kicked some ass. It takes a lot of guts to go out looking for a job like that, and there are a heap of people out there working right now who wouldn’t be able to do it. I’ve been looking at volunteer work at the moment; there are a lot of local parks advertising for volunteers and I figure it couldn’t hurt. I should probably aim for something more people-oriented, but we’ll see what happens.
The past can swallow you up sometimes. I feel so obsessed with it it’s like I’m walking backwards everywhere. I realised recently that I’m not being held back by the physical symptoms of depression or anxiety, but the overwhelmingly negative opinion I have of other people, based on things that have happened in the past. The thought of being able to somehow obliterate all that bad experience is so tempting sometimes.
Where do you want to be? I’m not going to ask you what your ‘dream job’ is, but there must be some kind of work that seems less unappealing than everything else. What could you see yourself doing that might provide some satisfaction, either now or in the long term? How do you feel about art? I ask because if there is something then maybe it’s something you can plan for, to help give you some focus. Make up some short-term goals and stuff like that.
Trust me, it’s not so difficult when you feel like it is your sole option. I know that seems ridiculous, or like a complete exaggeration, but that is what gave me the willpower to go through with it.
I have had similar thoughts about volunteering—that I should select something that makes me face my demons, so to speak. It would mean a bit of practice without the strain of a paycheck hanging over my head. I hate the idea, of course, but integrating and finding a routine with things, particularly interaction with people, I think might help it become more bearable or something. I said to someone today, at this interview, that the reason I wanted to work for their company is because (and I’m quoting here), “I love working with people”. It’s almost insane how easy it is to put on a front when you know you must. I rest knowing that I can go home and be my typical unsociable, moody self without reproach. The world is a place of masks, nothing more. You know that, I’m sure, but I have to keep reminding myself that nothing is real in the sense I believe it is.
I don’t know, I truly don’t. I enjoy certain things, but every time I think of pursuing it, I quash those ideas with the reality of the drawbacks. For instance, I could write. I have novel length bullshit clogging up my computer, but I hate it. I don’t feel good about it at all (I love the actual act of writing part; it’s the product that sickens me). I think it would hurt me more to do something I like then have it refused, rather than to fail at something I am uninterested in. It’s a depressing way to look at it, but it has a lot to do with my reasoning. I just see imminent failure, I guess, and I’m too weathered from it already to even try to take on any more of it willingly.
Yeah, the worst thing for me about looking for a job is the bullshit. Just looking at my resume makes me roll my eyes. What I hate is when you mail it off to somebody, or accept an interview, and you have this crushing realisation that you’re gonna have to put on a happy face and sell yourself to these strangers for a job that essentially means nothing to you. God, I need to get a degree.
Remember, there are degrees of success when it comes to writing, and there are a lot of things you can achieve as a writer before even thinking about getting a book published or earning a living from it. There are literally thousands of journals and magazines that accept pieces of writing, both online and in print, and I’ve seen reams and reams of shitty poetry that some editor thought was worth putting on a page. If you feel like what you’ve written speaks to even a single person, then you’ve achieved more than many do after a lifetime of trying.
I’d love to read anything you’ve written, if you’re comfortable with that. I’ve had a ‘thing’ with writing my whole life; I’ve been preoccupied with it since I was a kid, but have gone off it several times and haven’t been able to really apply myself to it seriously. Sharing your stuff with other writers can be a really good way to motivate yourself and encourage creativity. Have you tried looking around for online writing forums? If you’re lucky there might even be a group in your area you could join.
Ahaha, fanfiction huh? So do you have a thing for Snape or Malfoy? You have to tell me where you put it.
I have found the blog to be helpful with writing. I’ve never had a shortage of ideas, but usually I’ll get started with something and just lose interest and forget about it. With the blog I try to push myself to just get it finished enough to be comprehensible, and then post it without obsessing over it. The handful of stuff I’ve put on that blog is probably more than I’ve written in the last 10 years, so something about it works. Maybe you should try the same thing?
That teacher sounds like an asshole. There are probably more failed writers teaching classes than anywhere else, so unless this guy got something published himself it’s probably safe to ignore him. Most of the stuff I wrote during school, at least initially, was insanely morbid, and if you were anything like me I suspect it was probably the tone of what you were putting out that they didn’t like. Frankly anybody who tells anybody else to give up writing can only be a moron. Seriously, fuck him. If you enjoy it, that’s reason enough to keep at it. It actually makes me angry to hear about shit like that.
Also I’m totally serious about you e-mailing me something. I don’t know anyone who writes and I miss talking to people about it. I’m more than happy to send you something crap in return, and you can be as brutal as you want. I dare you.
I know that feeling…. My resume is the equivalent of your average fifth grader’s, and is certainly worthy of an eye roll or two. What I love, is when you walk into a fast-food restaurant and they ask you why you want to work there. There’s nothing wrong with working at such a place (I’ve put in resumes to several), but I highly doubt it is anybody’s dream job or something beyond the realm of ‘temporary’. Unless you become a manager, there are not a whole lot of possiblities. I just find it funny that people still put on a show when they must be aware that the only reasons most people endure work is to make money and buy more useless shit, regardless of how they get said money.
You are right about that; there are different ways to be successful in writing. I am just painfully shy about the entire thing. I had this teacher that used to tell me all the time that my writing was shit and I should give it up. It’s negative views like that that always seem to stick with me, and I tend to shrug off any compliments for fear they are nothing but a joke that I’m too naive to understand.
Christ, I can barely let my mom read my meanderings. If I sent it to you I might die prematurely of sheer humiliation. I have put my writing ‘out there’, though. I’ve written a lot of shitty fanfiction. But I hate it—I can’t stress the word “hate” enough. It’s painful for me to go back and read it because it is so damn awful. One is novel length (I think it was well over 300 pages or something), that I wrote in about a 4-5 month period not that long ago and got like…600 reviews for, but I still have yet to finish. It was nothing but an experiment. I do feel like writing so much every day was good for me; I learned to write when I felt completely void of creativity, but the product was…questionable. I can’t even look at it now without cringing and hovering over the ‘delete story?’ button. I noticed too, that the characters took on my moods that I was having at whatever point I was writing. Some chapters are particularly dreary, to the point where people were asking if it would ever be ‘happy’.
I know what you mean about falling in and out of writing, as I do the same thing. It goes through phases, I think. Don’t give up on it; even writing something short is better than not writing at all. But sometimes you just have to be in the proper creative mode for it to start working again. Blogs are good for keeping up with it though, and offer exposure in some way or another. I know I feel less horrible about posting here than I did when I started, though I catch myself deleting things a lot, and I rarely visit old posts because I know I will butcher them and lose that spot in time. I try to keep the past at a distance these days, though admittedly I feel chained to it.