Being alone is fun, until it’s not your choice.
This weekend I was forced alone, and I spent it glued to the couch and dragging myself outside for sludgy coffee and impractical purchases. I saw “Little Miss Sunshine”, alone. I bought suede boots that I have no idea how to wear, alone. I wandered the crowded streets, alone, and the worst part was, there was a stretch of several hours where I called no one and no one called me and I was struck hard by how I could have been snatched in that timeframe, quartered and thrown in a dumpster, and yet, no one would have known and no one would have cared.
I’m mourning the death of my former life now, and I don’t deal well with grief. Everything is exhausting and pointless; I found myself 100 pages in to reading “The Corrections” before I realized I had already read it. Every action I take is a step back. My novel is stagnant at page 125 as of this second.
Being a tortured artist is overrated. I’m not finding comfort in the aesthetic of pain. I can’t slash angry lyrics on a page, or even be lyrical at that. I can only create when I’m happy, not shivering on a corner of the bed, face hot, paralyzed by fear. Of the unknown. Of the thought that things that do not make you who you are, and even if they do, they are wasted, you could have done it some other way, known a slice instead of a wave of sadness and you could have learned it just from that…
Feelings mock. Things that control my life that I have no say in. Or worse, I do, and it’s my fault that things have unfolded as they are, and of course, whose fault would it be otherwise? structures crumbling in my hands, and the thought of the reason why is something that could keep me sick at night, because I really do not know. I do not know how much of me is supposed to be, and why it’s here.
This weekend I was forced alone, and I spent it glued to the couch and dragging myself outside for sludgy coffee and impractical purchases. I saw “Little Miss Sunshine”, alone. I bought suede boots that I have no idea how to wear, alone. I wandered the crowded streets, alone, and the worst part was, there was a stretch of several hours where I called no one and no one called me and I was struck hard by how I could have been snatched in that timeframe, quartered and thrown in a dumpster, and yet, no one would have known and no one would have cared.
I’m mourning the death of my former life now, and I don’t deal well with grief. Everything is exhausting and pointless; I found myself 100 pages in to reading “The Corrections” before I realized I had already read it. Every action I take is a step back. My novel is stagnant at page 125 as of this second.
Being a tortured artist is overrated. I’m not finding comfort in the aesthetic of pain. I can’t slash angry lyrics on a page, or even be lyrical at that. I can only create when I’m happy, not shivering on a corner of the bed, face hot, paralyzed by fear. Of the unknown. Of the thought that things that do not make you who you are, and even if they do, they are wasted, you could have done it some other way, known a slice instead of a wave of sadness and you could have learned it just from that…
Feelings mock. Things that control my life that I have no say in. Or worse, I do, and it’s my fault that things have unfolded as they are, and of course, whose fault would it be otherwise? structures crumbling in my hands, and the thought of the reason why is something that could keep me sick at night, because I really do not know. I do not know how much of me is supposed to be, and why it’s here.
Every action tastes like a mistake these days. Fingernails get dirty faster and sleepiness crowds my eyes, something is wrong, and while there must be a remedy, someone else holds it today, not me.
14 comments:
So sad!! Feel better, whatever it's about!!! :)
I'm curious - have you sold your novel yet?
I think you & I would be great friends...
I hope you feel better.
It's funny, a lot of people DO find comfort in that aesthetic of pain; in fact, for some (myself included) genuine feelings of malaise seem to open something up, creatively speaking...whereas feelings of contentment - that warm, genuinely cared-for feeling that can pervade your body and mind - seems to turn off the most powerful creative energy. I know that when I'm happy I can't go to those darkest places that, truth be told, are probably the most interesting and in some ways the most beautiful.
At least you're in New York...it's kind of the best place to be alone. You can do anything you want, do your own thing without worrying that people will judge, plus it's easy to meet people (if that's what you want) or brush them off (if you need your space).
Problems commenting now that I've 'upgraded' to beta? Sorry about that! Here's one that came from Another Twenty Something via email.
Hi K,
I can't comment it seems, anymore, but I read this post and wanted to
share my thoughts with you anyway. I read (possibly even on your blog a
while back) that one of the qualities of a true writer is that she
feels things more. Because she writes about events in detail and has to
describe every emotion her characters feel so deeply, she too picks up on
every emotion looking for descriptors to use in her own life. Because
of this attention to descriptive detail and knowledge of how to feel,
she can't help but experience it herself. I don't think it means you
have becomes the starving artist you have heard stereotypes about, but
that it means you have become part of your craft (for better or for
worse).
Otherwise, I hope you feel better. Try a spinning class maybe. :)
Another Twentysomething
Did you finally leave him? If so, I am happy for you...
And I thought I was depressing. Does this have anything to do with the decision you have to make about what to do with your life. Isn't it interesting that when we actually make a choice we spend a shitload of time mourning the road we didn't take. I've always found a good introspective, moping, spell of wallowing to be quite therapeutic. Ponder and mope and wallow on my dear. At least you write it well.
Sweet K,
I hate that you were wandering this weekend. I thought you were home! When you called I was drunk and crawling around the floor of a LES bar, looking for a lost necklace that turned out to be fastened (by me, earlier) around my friend's neck. Will you have dinner on Wednesday night? My mom is in town, so get hungry.
xoxoxoxoxoxoxox SB
While I know I can't truly understand completely what you are going through, I am sorry that you seem to be facing a particularly low point in your life. While not one to be overly optimistic and at the risk of sounding horribly cliche, perhaps it takes those difficult times and decisions in life to really help us appreciate and cherish when things are going well.
Regardless, I do hope things get better and I just wanted to say I particularly enjoy your photo that you posted in you last post. Beautiful use of reflection and composition.
you are one in a million who have days like this...things always get better...
you write well.
Lonely without a choice is heart wrenching. Try to keep your head up.
God, don't you love hormones.
I have no idea if you still read this blog, or how your life is many years later. I am sad that you were so sad when you wrote this. I hope that your life today is full of joy, light, purpose, fulfillment, and peace.
https://youtu.be/1C6zHiKEdj4
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