Some existential crap right there.

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For a while after my last post – you know, the one where I tripped and threw myself into a pit – I was riding a mini-coaster; highs and lows were coming with alarming and unpredictable speed. By the time of my next session I’d balanced back out again, but with the previous dip fresh on my mind, it became the focal point of the day. We talked (because that’s what I pay an ungodly amount of money per hour to do, after all), went further down some avenues we’d only glanced at briefly, and began digging up a few things we found there. I won’t bore you with the root causes (not today, anyway), but it comes down to me Denying Myself Things, which has been a recurring theme with these sessions. I don’t enjoy life so much because I don’t feel I’m allowed to. That’s some fucked up shit.

We spent some time zeroing in on whys, and did so well that Dr. Jennifer (that would be my counselor, if not obvious) was thrilled. The word “break-through” was used. I’ve seen enough movies to know that’s pretty fucking important.

And it is, but it’s not satisfying.

What I probably find the most frustrating part of this process is that I don’t seem to be able to just FIX what’s broken. I suspect I’m being unfair for focusing on that; if it were that easy I could’ve done it by myself years ago. I’m a person who at her core FIXES SHIT. Technical or emotional, doesn’t matter. I see a problem, I’m working on a solution. When it comes to myself however I’ve never had much lasting success, which was something of a bitter pill to swallow when I finally accepted that I needed help. It’s not entirely working the way I thought it would though. I think I assumed that once I could identify what was wrong, what was REALLY wrong, the world would just snap into alignment and I’d be fixed.

Turns out, not so much.

This fixing part is insanely, insanely difficult. It’s not enough to know the problem and know the reason for the problem, which is what I always thought. My ways of thinking and reacting are so ingrained into me that it’s a CONSTANT effort to keep myself in check and readjust. Dr. Jennifer likened it to roads. My current thought processes are the Autobahn, and these new thoughts are a back dirt road in Africa. I’ve got to keep making myself drive the shitty-ass roads until they’re so well-traveled and built-up that I can effortlessly zoom down them.

That’s fucking HARD, people. Who the hell chooses the fucking pothole-ridden dirt roads by default? It’s a relentless forced calculated thinking that’s so antithetical to me, that feels so FAKE, and good god damn I hate fake people. I don’t see where I have much choice though. Best perhaps to view it less as thinking fake and more of thinking for the real me who can’t think for herself just yet. I dunno, that’s some existential crap right there. I’ve got to reconcile it though, because it’s clearly not going to “just happen” without my direct involvement.

Missing Link

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I pretty well dicked myself today. I started out in a fairly genial mood, and began my writing day with my usual freeform/brain dump. I wasn’t feeling it too much today but that’s the whole point of the thing so pressed on.

During this time I write absolutely any and everything that pops into my brain, and there’s a kind of thrill in that, as I’m never sure what’s coming next. However it has, of late, skewed reflective. Today, as I’m blithely going on about coal mines and sea otters, I stumbled. A thought raced through my mind, an ugly thing I didn’t want to acknowledge. I tried to pass it off as a random bubble and ignore it, but it insisted on being chased down and examined and recognized for the truth it is.

I have lost all my passion.

It struck me hard and fast, and I could only sit here, remember to breathe, and try to refute the statement. I couldn’t. There are things I like okay, yeah, but passion? Once upon a time probably (maybe?), but how much now is down to habit? I’m afraid the answer is “a hell of a lot”. I drift from one thing to the next like a branch swept down a river because I don’t care enough to grab a rock.

Things have never exactly been right, but I feel like somewhere along the way I poisoned myself, and now I’m just waiting until it kills me. I’ve been patting myself on the back for surviving, but if this is all there is for me, then what’s the point of it? I don’t just want to mark time, I don’t just want to drift anymore.

Can a flame like that be reignited once it’s been snuffed out? I mean, do they sell those long lighter stick things for the pilot light of a soul, because I’m not sure what else to try. I want it … but does the wanting count for anything? Does it count for enough?

If we could live without passion, maybe we’d know some kind of peace. But we would be empty rooms, shuttered and dank. Without passion, we’d truly be dead.

 

The beginning.

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I had enough feedback over on my main blog to justify what I already wanted to do anyway, which is split all these fun-flow-tripping dark posts off into their own little impenetrable black hole. Though of course they won’t all be dark. OF COURSE THEY WON’T.

I’ve un-generic’d it about as well as I can accomplish in a couple hours of tinkering with theme settings and Photoshop filters, and unless struck by a sudden burst of inspiration or artistic talent, this is probably about as far as I’ll take it; way more about function over form here.

So how’s posting going to go? One to two times a week, at minimum, is the goal I’m setting. The point is for me to keep tabs on myself, with the whole “publicly talking about it” part a way to make myself accountable. It’s almost terrifyingly easy for me to slip into my own head and burrow into a crevasse there, then look up and weeks – sometimes months – have passed. By coming here regularly, by making myself talk even when it’s hard (especially then), I hope to have a more active role in breaking my cycles.

I’ll Tweet updates, but aside from a mention later today on PPP pointing toward this blog, the two will exist in their own individual spaces. That sort of being the point and all.

Comments aren’t something I expect (let’s face it, this is a shiny new nadir of wallowy me-ness), but if at any point you have something to say or questions to ask, bring it.