Crawling out of a hole and looking back only to see how deep it is and looking up to see how much further I have to climb. Sometimes its all too much.
Shadows
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I spent the first 2 days of my 3 day weekend in bed. I stared at the sunshine coming through the windows and it only made me burrow deeper into the couch/bed that I spent the 2 days alternating between. I can usually feel a bad time coming and this was the sign. I spent the whole day thinking about how much effort it would take to take a shower and leave the house. It consumed me and only made me feel worse, thinking how I can not even muster up the energy to take a shower. That’s pretty pathetic.
Sunday was not as bad. I got motivated to clean the house and I was going through old cards that he’s given me, that I’ve given him, wondering how to get back to that place where things were less complicated and we just loved each other. I know it’s me, that I am the one panicking and crying. But I really don’t know how to stop. I know it’s making it worse, that he doesn’t know how to help me. How could he? When I don’t even know how to help myself?
I drove by streets and noticed things I never did before, like how the train tracks had a crossing light station above on the hill. I found myself looking for a way to climb up there and photograph it. Or the very modern looking bridge that is way out of place in such a poor city of crumbling building. I wondered how it would look if I hung over the railing and took pictures of the river. I was just seeing things differently. But again, I didn’t get out of the car. I blamed it on not having a proper camera, but my phone takes nice photos. It’s the problem of not having the follow through, of being afraid to try because I so sure I will fail.
After I leave a group or even one person I feel so alone. Like there is nothing after that and there was really nothing before. I wonder what the point was. We laughed and joked but the whole time I am wondering what this is all for. I am always in my head wondering why. I can’t relax, I can’t enjoy a moment because I am so worried about the next.
I called my psychologist. He asked if I was safe. What is safe?
I want to be creative. I’ve always thought I would be. I have moments where I feel like I am and very much could be. The thoughts that go through my head seem like ones that others might enjoy. There is always something stopping me. I am paralyzed by the thought of my writing or my photos not being good enough.
When I was younger and I had all the excitement and ambition that younger people tend to have, I felt like I could do anything. I wrote constantly with no censorship and took hundreds of photos. Most of these were not any good, of that I can be pretty certain. I didn’t need to be encouraged, but looking back what I did need was to not be discouraged. Papers and photos were thrown out. I was to my face told that what I was doing was a waste of time. You read about artists that rose above that criticism and setback to go on to bigger and better things, living in a cot in a basement apartment in Hell’s Kitchen so they could be around the creative energy of NYC. I am not one of those people. I believed that I was no good and even though I still had the desire, I could no longer find the passion. When I did muster up some courage and write a few pages or take a few photos, I judged myself so harshly for not being perfect at it that I destroyed it. I ripped pages out of journals and set them on fire so they could never be read. I cut negatives into hundreds of pieces. I wanted so desperately to be better, to be perfect, but I was too afraid. I’d want to take a class and feel that crushing anxiety that I wouldn’t be able to understand or do better or as well as other students. I was afraid to try because if I tried and failed then she was right.
As I’ve gotten older the depression and anxiety has only gotten worse. This morning I was crying with my head on his chest, confessing that I don’t know what I’m here, that I don’t think I’m particularly good and anything and I don’t think I have the guts to do something about it. I’ve been crying on the way home from work everyday, looking at the beautiful mountains and sunsets, thinking of the pictures I could take, but never stopping the car to embrace that feeling. I get home and I hide inside and unable to move sometimes out of bed. I think of all the things I want to do and the things I am missing out on and I go even further into myself because it makes me feel like a failure.
He tries to reassure me, as he always does. He says that I have to develop my skills, that I won’t be good overnight. He says that he knows her voice is the loudest in my head and he wishes he could drown her out. He wants me to try and having even one person in your corner pulling for you as hard as he does is enough for now.
Musings and Melancholy 