"I think I'll try
Defying gravity" - from "Defying Gravity," Wicked
"Gravity always wins." - from "Fake Plastic Trees," The Bends (Radiohead)
My counselor asked me, in one my first sessions, whether I could ever remember being "happy." For lack of a better answer, I said no. This is not to say my life is one endless misery after the next. I have had my good times and bad, like everyone, and I certainly don't believe my various mental maladies are particularly noteworthy or deserving of special sympathy or attention from anyone save myself. But I consider it fairly pertinent, when attempting to assess myself, my life, my potential, my failures, my whatever, that I cannot think of an "ideal" time where things were demonstrably better and I felt genuinely "happy."
Of course, I was quite close. The two and a half years I dated Laura (my ex) were as close to happy as I've come, and our break-up does nothing to diminish that. That's part of the reason it's hit me so hard and seems to be the focus of so much of my thoughts: my relationship with her is the only working model I have for a period of time where I felt truly glad to be alive.
That might be a startling statement for individuals who probably don't know me particularly well.
(Just as the relative sincerity of my tone in the majority of these entries [and most to come] may be off-putting to those who seek some form of wit or irreverence. It's one of my contradictions that, for all my ostensible flippancy, I take so much so seriously, using humor as a guard against pretension and narcissism moreso than a consistently applied value. Humor makes introspection difficult because, by its very nature, it diminishes the impact and import of its subject. It's a tactic of evasion which has its strengths, especially if one seeks to avoid the impression of takine one's self too seriously, but I think I'll let my body of work speak for itself instead of consistently reaffirming that I'm only doing this jazz because it be effective at organization of thoughts and emotions, yo. So I'm, regrettably, left with a rather somber tone and far, far too many words. Consider this a warning. Digression: Accomplished.)
Ahem. Lord, my writing is a veritable frame story within a short story collection within an anthology, isn't it?
Where was I? Ah yes. The will to live. Or lack thereof, as the case may be. I'll probably take a trip of nostalgia at some point and visit the halcyon days of utter self-loathing and daily depression that left me a tormented husk of a person. It's good times, really, and if you haven't tried spending the majority of three years daily considering suicide (and even attempting the damned thing), I highly recommend it. Come for the angst, stay for the despair!
Point being, I've never been a happy person. I started counseling again before I had any idea Laura was going to break up with me, because I knew that I was dependent upon her for my own happiness and, even then, found myself anxious and dissatisfied. There are some pretty good reasons for that dissatisfaction, but that doesn't make it easier to bear or something I'm willing to simply accept.
Indeed, as evidenced by my entrance into counseling and this very blog, I have not given up on the prospect of happiness. I'd say there's no small degree of hope guiding me, despite its shroud of cynicism and its veneer of perennial pessimism. I continually defy my depression, continually find news ways to hope, new opportunities for change, new chances to overcome my petty sufferings and free myself to focus my wanton energy outward instead of letting it gnaw upon itself inside. I defy the gravity of my situation, to tie this stitched abomination of an introductory post together.
And yet, as alluded, the gravity has always won. Antidepressants, which I've been on for about two months, have been a great weapon in the battle, but they merely make life tolerable where, in my eyes, it should be pleasurable. I would like to think that I should enjoy my life, not merely settle for not being dead.
But I have few illusions that my more cunning, more insidious demons will be dissuaded from undercutting my efforts. Writing is a catharsis, but it also fighting fire with fire; I must dispel the sickness by reveling in it first, a draining process for me and, at the very least, an uncomfortable one for you. I can defy the gravity, the depression that always seeks to pull me down, to clutch my wings, hunch my back, drag me into its sordid nest of sadsack nettles.
So it is that, more often than not, I am left unsuccessful. Yet still I rage, resist, regret, what have you. To put it punly, I decry gravity even as it pulls me down. And, in so doing, there is a tacit assertion that I do not believe this is all there is, I do not believe life is a bird tied to a string tied to a post thrust into the ground by some cackling, malicious boy-child of a god. I may not believe I shall break free of my restraints, but as I flutter and flop, like Sisyphus grinning ear to ear, I'd like to think I have a chance of someday finding a peace inside the struggle.
So there you have it. I am not out to find a resonant triumph over the grim facts of our reality. I am not out to concede the fight to existential despair or my own self-savoring wendigos. I am out to rage and remonstrate, wail and weep, ponder and pity, analyze and abstract, engage and elicit, alliterate and stop alliterating, write and read and respond and, hell, think and feel. I'm fighting a battle I know I'll lose while I seek to find a way to let the effort be enough.
So that's that. I will say I greatly appreciate comments and tend to respond to them. But I also know that my walls of text are far too often insurmountable for even the best intentioned of my compatriots. My thanks, regardless.
Alright. Let's do this thing.
Defying gravity" - from "Defying Gravity," Wicked
"Gravity always wins." - from "Fake Plastic Trees," The Bends (Radiohead)
My counselor asked me, in one my first sessions, whether I could ever remember being "happy." For lack of a better answer, I said no. This is not to say my life is one endless misery after the next. I have had my good times and bad, like everyone, and I certainly don't believe my various mental maladies are particularly noteworthy or deserving of special sympathy or attention from anyone save myself. But I consider it fairly pertinent, when attempting to assess myself, my life, my potential, my failures, my whatever, that I cannot think of an "ideal" time where things were demonstrably better and I felt genuinely "happy."
Of course, I was quite close. The two and a half years I dated Laura (my ex) were as close to happy as I've come, and our break-up does nothing to diminish that. That's part of the reason it's hit me so hard and seems to be the focus of so much of my thoughts: my relationship with her is the only working model I have for a period of time where I felt truly glad to be alive.
That might be a startling statement for individuals who probably don't know me particularly well.
(Just as the relative sincerity of my tone in the majority of these entries [and most to come] may be off-putting to those who seek some form of wit or irreverence. It's one of my contradictions that, for all my ostensible flippancy, I take so much so seriously, using humor as a guard against pretension and narcissism moreso than a consistently applied value. Humor makes introspection difficult because, by its very nature, it diminishes the impact and import of its subject. It's a tactic of evasion which has its strengths, especially if one seeks to avoid the impression of takine one's self too seriously, but I think I'll let my body of work speak for itself instead of consistently reaffirming that I'm only doing this jazz because it be effective at organization of thoughts and emotions, yo. So I'm, regrettably, left with a rather somber tone and far, far too many words. Consider this a warning. Digression: Accomplished.)
Ahem. Lord, my writing is a veritable frame story within a short story collection within an anthology, isn't it?
Where was I? Ah yes. The will to live. Or lack thereof, as the case may be. I'll probably take a trip of nostalgia at some point and visit the halcyon days of utter self-loathing and daily depression that left me a tormented husk of a person. It's good times, really, and if you haven't tried spending the majority of three years daily considering suicide (and even attempting the damned thing), I highly recommend it. Come for the angst, stay for the despair!
Point being, I've never been a happy person. I started counseling again before I had any idea Laura was going to break up with me, because I knew that I was dependent upon her for my own happiness and, even then, found myself anxious and dissatisfied. There are some pretty good reasons for that dissatisfaction, but that doesn't make it easier to bear or something I'm willing to simply accept.
Indeed, as evidenced by my entrance into counseling and this very blog, I have not given up on the prospect of happiness. I'd say there's no small degree of hope guiding me, despite its shroud of cynicism and its veneer of perennial pessimism. I continually defy my depression, continually find news ways to hope, new opportunities for change, new chances to overcome my petty sufferings and free myself to focus my wanton energy outward instead of letting it gnaw upon itself inside. I defy the gravity of my situation, to tie this stitched abomination of an introductory post together.
And yet, as alluded, the gravity has always won. Antidepressants, which I've been on for about two months, have been a great weapon in the battle, but they merely make life tolerable where, in my eyes, it should be pleasurable. I would like to think that I should enjoy my life, not merely settle for not being dead.
But I have few illusions that my more cunning, more insidious demons will be dissuaded from undercutting my efforts. Writing is a catharsis, but it also fighting fire with fire; I must dispel the sickness by reveling in it first, a draining process for me and, at the very least, an uncomfortable one for you. I can defy the gravity, the depression that always seeks to pull me down, to clutch my wings, hunch my back, drag me into its sordid nest of sadsack nettles.
So it is that, more often than not, I am left unsuccessful. Yet still I rage, resist, regret, what have you. To put it punly, I decry gravity even as it pulls me down. And, in so doing, there is a tacit assertion that I do not believe this is all there is, I do not believe life is a bird tied to a string tied to a post thrust into the ground by some cackling, malicious boy-child of a god. I may not believe I shall break free of my restraints, but as I flutter and flop, like Sisyphus grinning ear to ear, I'd like to think I have a chance of someday finding a peace inside the struggle.
So there you have it. I am not out to find a resonant triumph over the grim facts of our reality. I am not out to concede the fight to existential despair or my own self-savoring wendigos. I am out to rage and remonstrate, wail and weep, ponder and pity, analyze and abstract, engage and elicit, alliterate and stop alliterating, write and read and respond and, hell, think and feel. I'm fighting a battle I know I'll lose while I seek to find a way to let the effort be enough.
So that's that. I will say I greatly appreciate comments and tend to respond to them. But I also know that my walls of text are far too often insurmountable for even the best intentioned of my compatriots. My thanks, regardless.
Alright. Let's do this thing.
"Too long I've been afraid of
Losing love, I guess I lost.
Well, if that's love,
It comes at much too high a cost.
I'd sooner buy
Defying gravity.
I think I'll try
Defying gravity,
And you won't bring me down."
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6dBW4pViRTU
I think defying (decrying) gravity means more than keeping life at a tolerable level. I think it also means learning to appreciate yourself and learning to be comfortable when you're alone.
Being single is not a lifestyle worthy of utter despair, even if you are charged up by being social with people. That's what you should work on - more social events, more interaction. And you should enjoy your alone time, rather than dread it.
I understand the pain of loss, Dylan, but time will heal you. For now, one of the best things you can do is live for yourself. You are not a shell just because you're single. I highly regard your friendship. And if you can learn to appreciate yourself as much as I appreciate you, you'll be alright.
It takes a little work. But I'm here for you, just as I've always been here for you, and just as you've always been there for me.
The problem really isn't loss, as I had comparable difficulties appreciating life before, during, and after the relationship. It's not a matter of conscious value placed upon being in a relationship, either, because I know and believe an individual can and should be happy "single." For whatever reason, though, I just don't derive much enjoyment from doing things for and by myself. It's been an issue all my life, one that I believe is fairly closely tied to my self-esteem and gender identity (how one informs the other I'm not sure of). I have been trying to be more socially active, and it's worked to varying degrees, but there's still a fundamental dependency there that is difficult to shake. In other words, the intent is there, but, as you well know, one's mind is not a ball of clay to be molded at will. Hence, introspection.
But yeah. I really do appreciate the support. The very process of writing is work, and it's the work of a lifetime. I'm glad I'm not composing it alone.