One of the best things I’ve ever learned is to give up ideas when they’re not working and I’m not enjoying them. The idea of keeping a daily journal and then posting it all here was quite a bad one; I completely failed to take into account my recent bouts of loneliness. They’ve become very frequent and unpredictable. I tend to turn my focus completely inward, hardly caring about the rustle of clothes as I try to sit comfortably while reading, the way the curtains flutter, the way the sun suddenly shines purely after a heavy shower – I just don’t care about these things on the bad days. The thought that I am lonely plays on repeat in my head. Not something I’d like to discuss every day here or anywhere. 2020 has been too harsh, and I want to forget it all.
As usual, I’ve resorted to my most effective coping mechanism: keeping myself busy. I’ve been fleshing out ideas for projects I want to work on or projects I wish existed even if I wasn’t the one executing them. I’ve also been making lists, curating information and resources, signing petitions, sending emails, planning and attending workshops, interning. Unable to focus on the written word, I’ve been reading mostly through audiobooks (would highly recommend The Queens of Renthia trilogy by Sarah Beth Durst, narrated by Khristine Hvam), and sometimes struggling with them too, rewinding every other minute because I thought I missed a word. My attention hasn’t been the best. I haven’t be too productive, but the things that I am working on – mostly as an intern at Youth for Mental Health – are rewarding and feel purposeful; I don’t feel like I’m wasting my time.
Sometimes, remains of my death anxiety and existential crisis return and I get overwhelmed with everything. I try to remove everything that I can – despite my selectiveness with who and what I let into my life, I find every time that there’s something to get rid of and discard – temporary obsessions, people I didn’t really connect with, books I don’t really want to read after all.
Yesterday was one such day. I took a look at my life – what I have and what I don’t, and then spent some time today making a list of things to do. This is not the final one; I know that a couple of months from now, all this listing and discarding and overwhelm will take over me again. I bet that if I go back through my posts from the last couple of years, I would be able to point out every time I felt similarly overwhelmed and then motivated to change my life (though that sounds a bit exaggerated): add new habits, discard old ones, learn something, adopt a new routine, redecorate my wall to put up posters and images that reflect the kind of person I’m trying to become. Sometimes, some of it works, but mostly I just end up with a pretty wall and little else.
This time I’m very aware it’s that same kind of motivation, so I’m trying not to make confident declarations about all the things I’m going to do and all the ways I’m hoping things would be better. And definitely no promises to blog regularly here. I’ve said that several times in the last few months and failed almost every time. I’ll keep everything to myself and try to do what I think needs to be done – one day at a time.
Writing hasn’t been fun. I’m not writing every day; I’m barely writing something once or twice a week. And when I do, I don’t really enjoy it the way I used to. It isn’t a chore but feels like one because I’m missing the thrill that comes with moving my fingers over the keyboard and writing sentences that I like. Forcing myself to write regularly might change that, but I don’t like the idea–of course, that means being stuck where I am, unable to enjoy being a writer.
I don’t know what’s going to happen next, or what I’m supposed to say. I am so tired. So is the entire world, it seems. Tired of incompetent people in power, tired of ignorance, tired of this pandemic, tired of being stuck at home. But I’m pretty sure everyone’s trying. I am. Trying to get better, trying to help, trying not to think or feel sometimes. So far, I’ve somewhat succeeded. Maybe if I keep up long enough, the fatigue will wear away.
I don’t know. I wrote what I did above because it felt like something I should write. I don’t know.
I am tired, a little. A lot. It changes. Every day is so different in terms of how good or bad I feel that it seems pointless to describe how an entire week or month went. Time is passing. I am here. So are my loved ones. There are some good changes happening. I guess that’s a lot to be grateful for. I don’t know.