Right. Let’s just do this.
I am terrified of becoming a bag woman. A homeless bum on the street. A mad woman who never showers, who trundles around behind a shopping cart full of her ‘stuff’ and mumbles perpetually about ‘them’.
I have no savings. No job. No income. I am totally financially dependent, and at least 50% physically dependent on help.
This is the truth.
… … … And it’s a hard truth to own.
I tell myself my artistic endeavors will one day pay off. That even Van Gogh lived in obscurity and complete dependence on his brother. I assure myself my value is not dependent on how many slips of paper I can entice people to throw my way.
But sometimes I just wonder if I’m kidding myself.
And I wonder, on the whole, what difference it makes. What difference does it really make if I die alone and in the street? Death is death, and once you’ve seen it up close you know that as fact. It really doesn’t matter who’s there or what the circumstances are. Death is a completely solitary experience. And it comes for you no matter what.
Still. I am afraid of the struggle. Everything in life is a struggle. Getting out the birth canal is a struggle. Taking that first breath of air is a struggle. Learning to walk, going to school, loving, hating – it’s all difficult. Aging and death are no different. And despite most of us having to go thru each of these experiences at some point, we fail to adequately convey to others what it’s like. Worse still, if we experienced disregard and belittling of our own pain and struggles, we’re more likely to react with those hated behaviors towards others.
I do that. I find myself often comparing the pain of others to my own. Finding their side lacking, complaining, overly dramatic. I attach all those hated words I was told as a child. Keep telling myself to stop that. Hear what the other people are saying: they’ve had enough. It doesn’t matter if I think I could ‘take more’ in their situation or not. This person, in this circumstance, says they can’t do it. Drop all that other shit and hear that. It all happens rather quickly, and I get to understanding very fast, but…I am ashamed of my first thoughts. They are mean and nasty, and they tell me that part of me hasn’t healed yet.
I don’t want to be mean or nasty. And I don’t want to be afraid. …Do you think the state would give me a lobotomy if I had to become a homeless person? I always imagined I’d be happier with one.
Gods, I’m fucking morbid. The sun is shining, it’s a bloody holiday, and I’m thinking such happy fucking thoughts. Yeah. Well. The whole nihilist movement had to come from somewhere, right? Part of me feels I should just embrace this inner goth. The girl who always kills everyone in her stories. Part of me wants sunshine and rainbows. The two fight. Sometimes one wins for a while: I wear black continually, or swap suddenly to color. And the goth girl hates the sunshine and rainbows girl; she thinks S&R girl is flighty and silly. S&R girl doesn’t hate goth girl, but she does think she’s an awful sourpuss and should just get off her ‘life is shit’ shtick. No matter how much I try, I can’t get these two to cooperate. They are too separate. Goth girl can’t understand how S&R girl can be so damned happy when there’s so much crap in the world. S&R girl doesn’t want to listen to goth girl because she knows goth girl is right about an awful lot but that doesn’t matter; S&R girl wants to play and laugh.
Is this normal? Or is this something I should tell Dr. T because it points to some other problem?
Get up, get out, get some fresh air. You don’t have to walk far or anywhere in particular, but get your brain out of this bleeding closet for a bit today! Listen to yourself!
Why do I keep feeling sadder and sadder? I felt good there, for a few days, on the increased medication. Now I’m feeling worse. More anxious. More fearful. More sad. Just shit coming up? Yeah, we got notice of another rental increase and no, it wasn’t welcome and brought a discussion of needing to move. And I really don’t want to move. But that was just discussion, batting around possible ideas to keep in mind for the next few years. It wasn’t pack your stuff up and get out now.
…Okay. You can ask why from now ’til forever. You know that. Just deal with what you’ve got in front of you today. Unhappy? Get some fresh air. Stretch your legs. Play some games, watch a good film. Talk to your brother. Make sure to take your pill on time. You don’t have to run from this. You can move forward without hysterics. Without anger or meanness. Sure, you’re sad. It’s okay to be sad. You’ve a lot to be sad about. Know that, accept that.
Or, darling girl, keep it in mind. You haven’t learned to accept this yet, so let’s not heap a bunch of stuff on our own heads that we can use to shame us in the future. What you have learned to do is to use it effectively. You’ve woven it into your writing. So the answer seems obvious, doesn’t it? Just begin. Anywhere. Wrap your fear and sorrow up into a scene. See it, feel it, write it. Find out where it leads you. Wherever it takes you, it won’t be here.