I've just finished The Heroin Diaries; reminds me very much of Will O' The Wisp. I do not classify myself as a junkie by any stretch of the imagination, but for some reason I can relate to these people. Replace drugs with a general fear of myself; replace debauchery with a feeling sometimes that I only recently woke up, as if I was asleep for a long time or even someone else, possessed...
I sometimes worry about myself. Sure, everybody has a bit of darkness in them... but I worry that I nurture my own black tar; while I'm relatively clean by most standards, I still have my addictions, and one of them is to hide myself away in a little cabin, and I'm not terribly sure why I do it. I feel like I've walled myself up and am beating against the walls, desperate to tear them down even though I built them for myself.
Confession? The thought should be funny to me. Whenever I confess, I end up showing certain sides of me, selective... deliberate. There is something false about that type of confession. Every time I confess or ramble on about what's going inside me, I feel like it is never enough... I want to show people what it feels like, I want them to taste it, I want them to possess me for a moment, standing in my shoes and seeing the world filtered through my lens.
Is that even possible?
I certainly try. I can't help it. But there are just some things I can't confess, and it feels very much like the world just keeps on turning, the opportunity for expressing those things vanishing into the distance.
I've talked much with a friend about what it means to be a writer. We jokingly agree that a writer is a soul that very much so complicates every relationship he or she has. Someone who is difficult to love not because they don't have it in their heart, or are incapable of it, but because there is constantly a struggle between telling stories that make people smile in the darkest of times... and telling the stories of those dark times that cast shadows on the ground. I want to tell both... but the thing about shadows is that you find yourself looking into them too deeply.
Is it a confession that I hate myself? Hell, you only have to talk to me for a short while and you can see it, oozing out my pores. Why do I do that to myself? I'm a walking contradiction... I love life and everyone who has made their way into mine, but if I could love myself as I love others... I could be capable of so much. Instead, I avoid reflective surfaces; instead I daydream about what it would be like to not wake up at all.
It is no accident, I think, that depression and drug addiction go so hand in hand. Depression is an addiction in itself. One day, you come to some dark conclusion, and a part of you wallows in it. It repeats itself; you hug it tight as if you are a child with a teddy bear. The flesh starts to bleed and you enjoy it. So you go about it again. You look in the mirror, and you spit. A part of you laughs and a part of you hurts, but the part that hurts is having as much fun as the part that laughs. Because there is a masochist tendency to the depressed. Hurting themselves, putting themselves in positions that they should never find themselves in, contemplating thoughts that no healthy person should think...
Confession? The thought should be funny to me. Whenever I confess, I end up showing certain sides of me, selective... deliberate. There is something false about that type of confession. Every time I confess or ramble on about what's going inside me, I feel like it is never enough... I want to show people what it feels like, I want them to taste it, I want them to possess me for a moment, standing in my shoes and seeing the world filtered through my lens.
Is that even possible?
I certainly try. I can't help it. But there are just some things I can't confess, and it feels very much like the world just keeps on turning, the opportunity for expressing those things vanishing into the distance.
I've talked much with a friend about what it means to be a writer. We jokingly agree that a writer is a soul that very much so complicates every relationship he or she has. Someone who is difficult to love not because they don't have it in their heart, or are incapable of it, but because there is constantly a struggle between telling stories that make people smile in the darkest of times... and telling the stories of those dark times that cast shadows on the ground. I want to tell both... but the thing about shadows is that you find yourself looking into them too deeply.
Is it a confession that I hate myself? Hell, you only have to talk to me for a short while and you can see it, oozing out my pores. Why do I do that to myself? I'm a walking contradiction... I love life and everyone who has made their way into mine, but if I could love myself as I love others... I could be capable of so much. Instead, I avoid reflective surfaces; instead I daydream about what it would be like to not wake up at all.
It is no accident, I think, that depression and drug addiction go so hand in hand. Depression is an addiction in itself. One day, you come to some dark conclusion, and a part of you wallows in it. It repeats itself; you hug it tight as if you are a child with a teddy bear. The flesh starts to bleed and you enjoy it. So you go about it again. You look in the mirror, and you spit. A part of you laughs and a part of you hurts, but the part that hurts is having as much fun as the part that laughs. Because there is a masochist tendency to the depressed. Hurting themselves, putting themselves in positions that they should never find themselves in, contemplating thoughts that no healthy person should think...
But for all this, I feel at least vindicated that I have fought constantly against these shadows. I look back at my life just a few years ago, when I was wrapped in shadows so deep that I doubt anyone could actually see me... not that I think anyone truly sees me now either, but I couldn't see what was happening. I acted badly, hurt those very close to me. Annoyed those who were not so close. And blamed everyone else for the disgust I felt for myself.
To say that I'm better would be a lie. I still walk that dark road from time to time and have the scars to prove it. But when I think of all the things that hurt me, they don't have the same affect they used to. Instead of thinking that some outside force has taken away everything I've wanted in life, I've finally refused to be stupid enough to think that any more. I'm to blame for the life I've built for myself, and whenever I feel a lack it is because I've been either too scared or too weak to grab whatever I need for myself.
I remember when I was around five years old or so, I'd stare blankly into nothingness and just... feel overwhelmed by it. I'd look into a shadow and feel so damn empty and pitiful and I remember just bursting into tears over it. In retrospect, that's a fucked up thing for a kid to be doing. Shouldn't I have been playing baseball or something?
Why am I confessing this? Because I have devoted myself to purging these emotions. Instead of just... giving in and trying to hurt myself as badly as I can just so I can feel like I've survived something, I, as of this moment, will admit: I want to actually make my friend's comment, that I've lived my life, truth.
It is a scary thought for me. It means, to a certain degree, silence... because in all honesty, what spews from my mouth when I talk to much is usually an attempt to connect, to admit of all the dark little streets inside me, in the hopes that someone will just turn to me and turn on a light. It is still a romantic idea-- someone willing to be my light.
But I gotta be my own damn light if I'm going to get any sort of positive attention anyway.
So... looking at my own predispositions... my first step is to learn how to be a storyteller that talks too much about the light... in the hopes that I can express life a lot more respectfully, not as dark alleyways in the rain, but more like New York City at night... neither light nor dark... I love this city for that... walk Times Square at night and you don't even realize it's night-time. But it is.
At least then I can feel like those I've lost over the years don't look down and shake their heads. At least then I can feel like I've earned my family being proud of me. At least then maybe I can start pausing for a second in front of reflective surfaces, and see myself.
To say that I'm better would be a lie. I still walk that dark road from time to time and have the scars to prove it. But when I think of all the things that hurt me, they don't have the same affect they used to. Instead of thinking that some outside force has taken away everything I've wanted in life, I've finally refused to be stupid enough to think that any more. I'm to blame for the life I've built for myself, and whenever I feel a lack it is because I've been either too scared or too weak to grab whatever I need for myself.
I remember when I was around five years old or so, I'd stare blankly into nothingness and just... feel overwhelmed by it. I'd look into a shadow and feel so damn empty and pitiful and I remember just bursting into tears over it. In retrospect, that's a fucked up thing for a kid to be doing. Shouldn't I have been playing baseball or something?
Why am I confessing this? Because I have devoted myself to purging these emotions. Instead of just... giving in and trying to hurt myself as badly as I can just so I can feel like I've survived something, I, as of this moment, will admit: I want to actually make my friend's comment, that I've lived my life, truth.
It is a scary thought for me. It means, to a certain degree, silence... because in all honesty, what spews from my mouth when I talk to much is usually an attempt to connect, to admit of all the dark little streets inside me, in the hopes that someone will just turn to me and turn on a light. It is still a romantic idea-- someone willing to be my light.
But I gotta be my own damn light if I'm going to get any sort of positive attention anyway.
So... looking at my own predispositions... my first step is to learn how to be a storyteller that talks too much about the light... in the hopes that I can express life a lot more respectfully, not as dark alleyways in the rain, but more like New York City at night... neither light nor dark... I love this city for that... walk Times Square at night and you don't even realize it's night-time. But it is.
At least then I can feel like those I've lost over the years don't look down and shake their heads. At least then I can feel like I've earned my family being proud of me. At least then maybe I can start pausing for a second in front of reflective surfaces, and see myself.
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