Searching for a Quiet Place

It has been several weeks since I last posted here. Among the many reasons for that is the physical toll those entries took on me. To turn my thoughts feelings into words is like squeezing blood from a stone. My brain is one recalcitrant bitch. I pulled two all-nighters in the making of my first two posts because I knew if I stopped writing I would never start again.

It’s not like I don’t have things to write about. I have memories – stories from my past, frustrations that are begging to take written form so that they can be neglected no longer. I have long been accused of not talking about these things when I should. Perhaps at some point I will even get around to contemplating and relating the joys as well.

I have been so closed off from those around me for so long that it seems the only way I can feel connected is through writing. I’m suddenly struct by Matt Damon’s the line from The Departed: “I’m fucking Irish. I’ll deal with something being wrong for the rest of my life.” I’m only a little bit Irish – although I know a thing or two about alcohol – but this line describes me EXACTLY. How strange that the only way I can talk to anybody is to talk to everybody.

Writing gives me a chance look into the mirror, and also out the window. If I really dig, if I really tear my hair out, I can have thoughts. I can have opinions that are based on values and beliefs. Even, perhaps, beliefs that are based on facts. Ones that I can explain to myself clearly, if not to others. I can even be proud, for a moment, that the things I think and say appear to be coherent. But it takes a lot out of me. In the intervening weeks, my brain activity will return to its normal buzz of unrealistic hopes and expectations, which are rendered such by tangential efforts, which are anesthetized by petty distractions, which give way to frustration, hopeless, self-loathing, resignation, and boredom.

To be more accurate, the boredom is generalized throughout the entire cycle. It’s easy to get bored if you simply don’t have the discipline to see anything through to the point where it might benefit you. It’s also hard to know how to start again from scratch when your whole life feels like one giant corner cut.

If you’ve read this far, you know by now that I am an extremely anxious, wound-up, and at times self-conscious person. I visualize my manner of navigating social interactions as running through a gymnasium while batting away a volley of dodgeballs. I can’t keep my mind in one place for very long because I need to be ready for the next onslaught. Perhaps this is why I feel as though I have not been able to, as of yet, “grab life by the ball”. Thankfully I am particularly self-conscious about alcohol and drugs and their effect on my already-compromised brain, otherwise I would live out my impulse to drink or smoke myself into a coma far more often than I actually do.

It seems so juvenile to be writing about how I can’t focus for long enough to write. Writing isn’t supposed to be easy. But that’s not what this is about. I’ve tried just about everything to find something that I could do that would make me believe I could do something, anything, without balking, half-assing, or just plain hating myself. I got into mountain biking, skiing, hiking, traveling. I fucked off and played video games and watched TV. I worked a low-level job for two years, I started my own small business, I even graduated college. It was a disaster (college – everything else was aight). So why am I here again, at five in the morning, not having slept, when most go-getters are about ready to wake up and start their day? Where would the tempestuous soul not seek respite?


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