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Steps backwards
9 years ago
General
One of the hardest things to do quite often in life is simply to take a step back and look at yourself and where you are in life. This is especially hard if you don't know what you are or where you want to be in life.
Sometimes I wonder whether it'd be easier if we all just had a counter counting down to our respective ends, so we could see how far along we are and how long we have to achieve things. Would we only start worrying once we reached the half-way point, and have a multitude of mid-life crises? Would we simply shake our heads and try to make the most of whatever time we have left? Would we shrug it all off entirely and say there's always plenty of time until someday there isn't anymore?
As anyone who knows me knows, I'm absolutely awful at finishing projects - or even getting to the part of the project that's interesting. I hate myself for it quite a lot - my lack of discipline startles and upsets me. Not, apparently, enough to do anything about it, but enough to drag myself down when I really ought not to.
The question then, is what is enough? At what point will I be doing what I consider to be a true reflection of myself? At what point am I going to be happy that I'm being true to my potential?
There are those who would say that simply holding down a full time job, regardless of other occupation and especially due to my patchy history with life in general, would be enough to say I am successful. Writing, learning and other personal improvements go out the window when people expect you to probably be on benefits for most if not all of your life. Arguably simply having a university degree, a functional relationship and a personal development goal are plenty enough to keep your average human being happy. Sure, I'm not getting a masters degree, and I have no aspirations to become a Doctor of anything. Sure I've given up reading and writing is an oft-ignored hobby that I treat with equal amounts love and hate. Sure I don't have a "career plan" and I don't know where I see myself in five years... But what does that actually mean?
I'm obsessed with the idea of fitting in. Of finding some little niche in society I can etch out an existence within. I'm not looking for a dream job I'll love, but simply a decent enough job that likes me enough. I'm not looking to be the most intelligent or well-read person in the world, but instead just insightful enough to keep a conversation going. I'm not looking for the greatest lover in the world - just someone who can tolerate my eccentricities.
I am hardly the romantic I was six years ago. I don't dream of coastlines and starscapes. Instead I cling to old memories of aspiration, and trap myself by telling myself something has changed.
Maybe something has changed. At some point along the line I stopped reminding myself that I've always been this pessimistic - this filled with perceived injustice in the world, and this regretful of my own existence. When a person thinks of reflection in the now, they rarely think of reflection in the then. The adage of various gay-accepting campaigns rings false in the ears of one trapped in a hole for 26 years - that of "it gets better" barely seems to register when you're waiting for so long for things to get better.
When you remind yourself that feelings and thoughts are so familiar to you it becomes almost comforting in a way. I imagine it's the way confident people manage - they throw themselves into uncomfortable feelings so often that the feeling of discomfort becomes more comfortable than comfort itself - these are the people who simply can't sit still; who are always pushing boundaries. I am not, it is practically redundant to say, one of these people.
But depression works like that too. Like listening to a familiar old sad song, it's black wings wrap themselves around you, the ridges of it's wings like the harsh beat of an uncompromising lyric, and it's grip like thorns which slowly cut you. A depressed person hurts themselves with their comfortable sadness, returning to old music like a half-eaten corpse shambling towards a vulture, declaring "Eat me!" and demanding to be swallowed whole.
There's a reason black is a colour used for depression. It is the colour of the absence of everything, and the colour of the hole that's left when everything is gone. How many of my actions leave me staring into the abyss, I wonder? How many of my choices leave me comfortably melancholic?
So a step back is in order. I'm not going to apologise to myself tonight for failing to achieve what I might otherwise wish to. I'm not going to feel guilty for the things I've done instead. I'm not going to surrender myself to it.
Too often a writer puts down his pen out of frustration. He curses his muse, he swears at his inner critic and he stares hatefully at his work. Just once I would like to put down my pen because I want to; because I haven't failed. Just once I want to be able to take a step back and say I'm okay.
Sometimes I wonder whether it'd be easier if we all just had a counter counting down to our respective ends, so we could see how far along we are and how long we have to achieve things. Would we only start worrying once we reached the half-way point, and have a multitude of mid-life crises? Would we simply shake our heads and try to make the most of whatever time we have left? Would we shrug it all off entirely and say there's always plenty of time until someday there isn't anymore?
As anyone who knows me knows, I'm absolutely awful at finishing projects - or even getting to the part of the project that's interesting. I hate myself for it quite a lot - my lack of discipline startles and upsets me. Not, apparently, enough to do anything about it, but enough to drag myself down when I really ought not to.
The question then, is what is enough? At what point will I be doing what I consider to be a true reflection of myself? At what point am I going to be happy that I'm being true to my potential?
There are those who would say that simply holding down a full time job, regardless of other occupation and especially due to my patchy history with life in general, would be enough to say I am successful. Writing, learning and other personal improvements go out the window when people expect you to probably be on benefits for most if not all of your life. Arguably simply having a university degree, a functional relationship and a personal development goal are plenty enough to keep your average human being happy. Sure, I'm not getting a masters degree, and I have no aspirations to become a Doctor of anything. Sure I've given up reading and writing is an oft-ignored hobby that I treat with equal amounts love and hate. Sure I don't have a "career plan" and I don't know where I see myself in five years... But what does that actually mean?
I'm obsessed with the idea of fitting in. Of finding some little niche in society I can etch out an existence within. I'm not looking for a dream job I'll love, but simply a decent enough job that likes me enough. I'm not looking to be the most intelligent or well-read person in the world, but instead just insightful enough to keep a conversation going. I'm not looking for the greatest lover in the world - just someone who can tolerate my eccentricities.
I am hardly the romantic I was six years ago. I don't dream of coastlines and starscapes. Instead I cling to old memories of aspiration, and trap myself by telling myself something has changed.
Maybe something has changed. At some point along the line I stopped reminding myself that I've always been this pessimistic - this filled with perceived injustice in the world, and this regretful of my own existence. When a person thinks of reflection in the now, they rarely think of reflection in the then. The adage of various gay-accepting campaigns rings false in the ears of one trapped in a hole for 26 years - that of "it gets better" barely seems to register when you're waiting for so long for things to get better.
When you remind yourself that feelings and thoughts are so familiar to you it becomes almost comforting in a way. I imagine it's the way confident people manage - they throw themselves into uncomfortable feelings so often that the feeling of discomfort becomes more comfortable than comfort itself - these are the people who simply can't sit still; who are always pushing boundaries. I am not, it is practically redundant to say, one of these people.
But depression works like that too. Like listening to a familiar old sad song, it's black wings wrap themselves around you, the ridges of it's wings like the harsh beat of an uncompromising lyric, and it's grip like thorns which slowly cut you. A depressed person hurts themselves with their comfortable sadness, returning to old music like a half-eaten corpse shambling towards a vulture, declaring "Eat me!" and demanding to be swallowed whole.
There's a reason black is a colour used for depression. It is the colour of the absence of everything, and the colour of the hole that's left when everything is gone. How many of my actions leave me staring into the abyss, I wonder? How many of my choices leave me comfortably melancholic?
So a step back is in order. I'm not going to apologise to myself tonight for failing to achieve what I might otherwise wish to. I'm not going to feel guilty for the things I've done instead. I'm not going to surrender myself to it.
Too often a writer puts down his pen out of frustration. He curses his muse, he swears at his inner critic and he stares hatefully at his work. Just once I would like to put down my pen because I want to; because I haven't failed. Just once I want to be able to take a step back and say I'm okay.
