Sorry, this is longer than I thought it was going to be.
It has been some time since I last typed anything into this space. I wanted to be far more consistent and passionate with my posts when I created this blog, but that quickly fell apart. I could have told you that was going to happen, honestly. I often fail to follow through on my creative endeavors, or, at least, I struggle to work on them consistently. Much the same with this blog, I’ll begin working on something and after a few weeks it will fall out of my interest, then many months will pass with me wishing I had worked on it more, and I will eventually pick it back up, most likely for a few more weeks, then the cycle repeats.
It’s not as if writing in this is much of a taxing thing either. I set no rules or guidelines for myself, I gave myself no deadlines. There were no constraints or stipulations under which I had to work or meander through, and yet I placed a pressure on myself to do well. Whatever that meant, or means. There were a few people who would read every one of my posts and some would even message me to talk about the writing. I wanted to make sure the quality of the writing was good for those few. I wanted to entertain them or give them something interesting to read, and I started to struggle. I would reach deep into my insecurities or the memories of my past to try and find a topic of discussion, but this inevitably caused more distress and mental strain. I’m not typically one to wear my heart on my sleeve, but I would lift up my shirt to show you if you asked. However, I think rehashing unpleasant moments or feelings solely as a means for inspiration was not healthy for me at that time. Obviously I am not placing this blame on any of the few people who enjoyed my writing, I appreciate their support and interest quite a lot. I placed an expectation upon myself because I wanted to make sure I kept those people pleased with my “work,” and then I began feeling like I wasn’t going to meet that expectation, so I started to write less and less.
I don’t think I’ll come back to post in here everyday, maybe once a week or every five days or so, but I do plan on writing more, only for those few who care to read
01.11.26 SUNDAY
I’ve never really been a fan of the New Year, at least not one to celebrate it. I think I just have a problem with the celebration of passing time in some way. I have the same problem with celebrating my birthday. I might just be too nihilistic to appreciate something as simple and universal as a birthday or a New Year. When a poignant milestone comes to pass my mind almost instantly goes to a far more pessimistic place than it should. I get to my birthday and place my age against the average lifespan and I think to myself, “Oh boy, I’ve lived 34 percent of my life, if I make it to the average, which I probably won’t.” I don’t know why I do that. I don’t try to be a contrarian for the sake of being a contrarian, or different solely for the sake of being different, I’m sure there are other people out there that do/feel the same thing on their birthdays. I’ve never done or said it sincerely in the search of getting a reaction out of somebody, I rarely ever do that in a genuine manner. I mean to say, I don’t hold opinions of things specifically because I know other people would disagree with me, I think that’s just a truly pathetic way to live and think. Which is fucking stupid, because I think it is objectively pathetic to consistently be miserable at every celebration of your life.
I remember watching the New Years Eve live with my dad many years ago, and at that age being excited about the event. I remember Imagine by John Lennon playing after the ball dropped, and I remember how empty that joy felt. I don’t really give a shit about John Lennon, so I’m not going to give him any credit for the emotional memory, but that song felt so desolate in that moment. It was a fleeting moment of joy crushed by the unrelenting march of time. I think I was too young to comprehend it in that way, but I remember the sullen look and feel on my dad’s face as the people celebrating flashed across the screen of our TV. He was probably drunk to some extent, which would have heightened his sadness, mumbling something about his failed marriage or the song that played at his wedding.
Years later, I spent New Years Eve in Chicago with a friend and his family. We got to the city mid-afternoon on the 31st. I don’t remember the drive down at all, nor do I really remember where the hotel was within the city. We walked around the city for some time, visiting different shopping centers, seeing different Christmas installations, eventually stopping for dinner. My friend and I shared a dish of pesto pasta at an Italian restaurant where I distinctly remember dipping torn bits of bread into small dishes holding olive oil and balsamic vinegar.
I don’t think I was aware of the time at any point that night. It had been dark since we left the hotel, and there were so many people about that it felt as if I was stuck in a bad trip. I know that we weren’t out for a terribly long time, but it just dragged and dragged for what felt like hours. We wanted to make our way to Navy Pier before midnight, I don’t know if we wanted to celebrate there or if we just wanted to see if anything was happening. We never made it. That sounds much more foreboding than it should, but we got lost. We weaved and meandered and stumbled our way through parts of that city that felt like cities of their own. We walked across bridges and through underground roads, or whatever the fuck they’re called, and then we’d walk over them again, and we’d pass buildings we had seen a dozen minutes before. Eventually, we managed to find our way back to our hotel which, conveniently, was fairly close to Navy Pier. We didn’t go to Navy Pier. We went up to our room with time to spare and waited for midnight to arrive, celebrating in a room too small for all of us that went up. I called my dad to wish him a happy new year, and he reminded me that he was an hour ahead of me. Such a momentous occasion had already come and went for him, and now it was my turn to take it in.
I don’t even remember celebrating. I remember leaving the city and stopping at Dunkin’ Donuts on the way home. I remember walking home from my friends house and being cold. It was a new year, it was the dawn of a new period of my life, but I don’t remember it being anything more than just another winter day.
01.13.26 TUESDAY
I think that’s where part of my struggle with the holiday comes from, I think I have a hard time finding something special about it. I understand that it is a special day for many people and many cultures. I know that for many people it’s a sort-of rebirth, like they can use this signaling of a new time as a leaping off point for any needed change. I try to view it in that way, I often times will create a list of New Years resolutions, but more often than not I spend the day thinking of the year that ended rather than the one that just began. I look back on the year and think of how many things I regret doing or not doing. I reflect on all of the moments that left a sour taste in my mouth and ignore all of the pleasantries I experienced.
I’ll take that mindset with me into the new year and just assume that nothing will be different from the year before. But doing anything with that mindset, going into any situation with a preconceived notion that it is going to go poorly is a surefire way to make it go poorly. I think I’m often times too pessimistic to see that, I usually just assume most things are going to go poorly for no valid reason.
I don’t really allow myself the ability to enjoy things for that reason. I don’t know why. I don’t know why I ruin a good thing by thinking that it might turn poorly at some point. I think about this good thing ending and I cut it off before it gets there because I’d rather get the disappointment out of the way. That’s so fucking stupid. On multiple occasions in the last few years I’ve found myself in situations that are exactly what I want, situations in which I am the happiest I have ever been, but I don’t allow it to continue. I can’t allow myself a good thing because I’m too worried that I’ll fuck it up, so I just remove myself from the equation. It’s an incredibly frustrating thing, and I know I have upset others by doing it, and I’m trying really hard to allow myself to enjoy something for what it is instead of what it might be.
There are so many things that I know would have been better for me than the choice that I made, but I live with that, and, to be honest, I have not been enjoying my life as of late. I do think this year will be better for me than the last, and I will try my dearest to make that so, but I understand that requires work from me to improve, and I’ve never been very good at that.
11.14.26 WEDNESDAY
Yeah, I’m adding more to this after publishing it, what are you gonna do about it? You gonna kill me? Chump.
I don’t think I have a fear of being alone, but I think it does affect me greatly. I spend a lot of time, most of my days, by myself in some capacity. Driving in my car, running errands, sitting at home writing a fucking blog at five in the morning. I’ve never been one to feel like I need to be with people to enjoy myself, not that there’s anything wrong with people who do feel that way. I think life in general is more enjoyable when you share it with others, be that one person or many. I can understand that there is something special in sharing moments and time and memories with someone else, and I often feel the same. I never really felt a great deal of fomo when I found myself alone on certain nights, but I think that has changed with the years and my mindset.
When I dropped out of high school in the Spring of my senior year I spent weeks, months in my room. I had nothing to busy my time on the weekdays, so I would just sleep and play video games, and when I got hungry I would drive into town late at night and get some shit food. In the moment I found joy in this because it was what I wanted to do. I was a kid who didn’t enjoy school and did enjoy video games, so what better thing to do than stay home every day and do exactly what I wanted. But staying in that room while everyone else moved on with their life, while they progressed and lived the way we were supposed to at that age. I don’t know, I suppose I feel like it stunted my social life. There’s no way I would have known that in the moment, but I think looking back at it, that very much skewed my view of isolation.
I became so used to that isolation and that silence, where the only friends I truly spoke to were voices on the other side of a screen. I don’t think I’m socially inept, I don’t feel like a hermit in that regard, but my comfort in that space has left a resonating desire to spend time alone, even at times when I wish to be around someone. I can still find peace in isolation at times when I want to do something like this, when I want to write or when I want to decompress my emotions, but more often than not I find misery in it. When I’m with someone or a group of people I’m not thinking about myself. I’m not thinking about what I looked like today, or what I did wrong today, I just want to entertain and please those around me. I want to bring them a semblance of comfort or joy because that’s often what they bring me. In that moment, in those moments of company I can feel safe in some way because I’m not alone with myself, as simple as that sounds.
This past holiday season, in that interim liminal space between Christmas and New Years, I found myself in that same isolation I’ve grown to hate. I think that stretch of days feels like limbo for a lot of people, where you’re stuck between two days of celebration and you’re not really sure what to do in the meantime. I really only spend time with one person and he was visiting his partner in Chicago for New Years, which I was invited to join, but turned down.
I know, “why the fuck are you talking about being alone if you were invited to join people and you refused?” Like I said earlier in this post I kind of just get extra miserable on New Years, and I felt I was going to piss people off if I was just miserable the whole time. I also just don’t really enjoy vising that city.
So I found myself alone for three or four days, or five, I don’t really remember. I didn’t know what to do with myself, I turned into a leashed dog without someone to direct him. I occasionally went to a coffee shop to write or just be present in the world, but that felt like it’s own pathetic thing. I felt like I was in The Truman Show when the rain falls specifically on him, like I had a shroud or a bubble of misery and dejection around me at all times. There was a stretch of three days where I think I said a total of 30 words. I was forced into the echo chamber of my own head, which is the worst place I could imagine spending time. I had so much anxiety and paranoia build up immediately that felt impossible to dispel. I would wake up shortly after falling asleep to nausea, gasping breaths, and a difficulty swallowing. I caved in on myself so quickly and easily and it felt like a completely inescapable burden, like I was in an endless hall of mirrors. I wasn’t doing well at all. I started listening to old playlists and music that I knew would bring me comfort or replace my thoughts with fond memories. It helped.
I’m so quick to assume I’m not wanted in a situation, or that those around me would be better off if I weren’t around, not around in a suicidal sense, but in that specific time and place. I’ll go to a costume party and convince myself I look too stupid to be there. I’ll go out to a bar and assume I’m being too quiet or self-deprecating and that it’s ruining everyone else’s night. I’ll go to a friend of a friend’s house for a get together and assume I’m the odd one out, like I was only invited to fill a table. I always assume I’m a burden on someone’s space and time, even when they explicitly tell me they want me there.
Anymore I think I find myself isolated or alone because of that reason more than an actual desire to be alone. I don’t want to be alone, I don’t enjoy it, but I’m so afraid of disappointing people that I often retreat before doing so. Even when I’m physically with them I feel like I’m not wanted there, like I’m overstaying my welcome. I know that’s entirely my problem and almost certainly in my own head, and I think I often upset people because of that assumption rather than them not wanting me there. I know it’s disrespectful and fucked up and just stupid to make a decision for someone else because of what I think they think of me. That’s something, among a lot of other things, I need to work on this year. I know I’m still going to hover in and out of that loneliness and fear of not being wanted, and I’ll get anxious and sleep poorly, and I’ll go back to those playlists and that music, but I love that music and it makes me happy, so I’m fine with that.
Anyway, I’m gonna go watch Everything Everywhere All at Once. Love you.
Grub's Dirt 