Usual bout of gloom and despair.
I hate my writing, I have no style, everything I write is trash, etc.
This is the panic attack that I just had. And not just a freak-out series of negative thoughts, oh no. This was an honest to goodness, hyperventillation, my-life-is-over, tears-in-my-eyes, thought-I-was-going-to-die Panic Attack with capital letters and mom wondering if we should go to the hospital and me just really wanting not to be me anymore.
Why couldn't I not care about literature? Why couldn't I have been Ashley, and just want to be a Dental Hygienist, or Dane and have stick-figure drawings get me into a decent art program and never really care how wealthy I become or who I impress? Why couldn't I be Angela, and just one day wake up and realize that I'm going down the wrong path and actually have the balls to Stop Going Down the Wrong Path and Make a Change For the Better? Or how come I couldn't be David (and I know you're all groaning at this point but at least hear me out) and never realize how truly filthy and terrible my writing and my lifestyle is and just keep cranking it out, at least being productive if nothing else, not worrying about quality so much because at least you have something to show for all your efforts?
Why can't I just be me and be happy with being me?
Because the truth is, my GPA took a nosedive this last year. I failed MOST of my classes. The reason I failed most of my classes is because I didn't attend them. And that was because the thought of attending them reminded me that I was suicidally depressed. I suppose I could just get a doctor's note about that. Debbie (the PA I see) would be more than happy to write a very long-winded explaination of why I sucked last year.
But that still doesn't explain this year. This whole year off with (I am forecasting) nothing to show for it.
I made a to-do list somewhere back there of things I wanted to do this year, and now I'm fretting over whether or not I'll finish a Vikram Seth novel, a book Zeamer recommended to me a year ago, and a second-rate novel by a first-rate novelist before they're due back at the library.
What am I reduced to? My panic attack ended suddenly, with that gasp of air that I once said was my favorite sound, but which tonight sounded empty and hopeless, not full of hope as it sounds when everyone else does it. I'm thinking my dose of Wellbutrin might need to be upped. I say this because I took some at six o'clock and almost immediately after passed out until quarter to ten. Five minutes later I had my panic attack, and then I began writing this.
And what is this? Is this me forcing myself to make a decision? Am I going to realize that I can't bloody well write any better than any other average, middle-class raised, public-school educated, college dropout fuck-up? Am I going to finally just say Fuck You, Ideals, and toss the hopes of a writing career out the window, change all my plans and become a ____________?
No, I suppose not. At the end of the day, no matter how much I hate what I've written, no matter how much I abhor the words I choose to keep, the words I effortlessly and carelessly spew out onto the page, no matter how much I suck, I still can't fill in that blank. And until I can realistically fill in that blank, I gotta stick with it, or die.
And somehow, death doesn't fill in that blank, either. *
*This is not meant to be an inspiring, 1990's pseudo-hopeful comment, or anything positive at all in the way of wrapping up a post. It's actually more of a resignation, like, Dammit, this one doesn't work either. Where is the screw that will fit? Where is the profession that fits like a glove? Will I toil and struggle along in my life forever? Where is happiness, fulfillment, functionality? These things have been promised to me by a man who died several years ago, and I wonder if his promises outlast the breath that delivers them.
This is the panic attack that I just had. And not just a freak-out series of negative thoughts, oh no. This was an honest to goodness, hyperventillation, my-life-is-over, tears-in-my-eyes, thought-I-was-going-to-die Panic Attack with capital letters and mom wondering if we should go to the hospital and me just really wanting not to be me anymore.
Why couldn't I not care about literature? Why couldn't I have been Ashley, and just want to be a Dental Hygienist, or Dane and have stick-figure drawings get me into a decent art program and never really care how wealthy I become or who I impress? Why couldn't I be Angela, and just one day wake up and realize that I'm going down the wrong path and actually have the balls to Stop Going Down the Wrong Path and Make a Change For the Better? Or how come I couldn't be David (and I know you're all groaning at this point but at least hear me out) and never realize how truly filthy and terrible my writing and my lifestyle is and just keep cranking it out, at least being productive if nothing else, not worrying about quality so much because at least you have something to show for all your efforts?
Why can't I just be me and be happy with being me?
Because the truth is, my GPA took a nosedive this last year. I failed MOST of my classes. The reason I failed most of my classes is because I didn't attend them. And that was because the thought of attending them reminded me that I was suicidally depressed. I suppose I could just get a doctor's note about that. Debbie (the PA I see) would be more than happy to write a very long-winded explaination of why I sucked last year.
But that still doesn't explain this year. This whole year off with (I am forecasting) nothing to show for it.
I made a to-do list somewhere back there of things I wanted to do this year, and now I'm fretting over whether or not I'll finish a Vikram Seth novel, a book Zeamer recommended to me a year ago, and a second-rate novel by a first-rate novelist before they're due back at the library.
What am I reduced to? My panic attack ended suddenly, with that gasp of air that I once said was my favorite sound, but which tonight sounded empty and hopeless, not full of hope as it sounds when everyone else does it. I'm thinking my dose of Wellbutrin might need to be upped. I say this because I took some at six o'clock and almost immediately after passed out until quarter to ten. Five minutes later I had my panic attack, and then I began writing this.
And what is this? Is this me forcing myself to make a decision? Am I going to realize that I can't bloody well write any better than any other average, middle-class raised, public-school educated, college dropout fuck-up? Am I going to finally just say Fuck You, Ideals, and toss the hopes of a writing career out the window, change all my plans and become a ____________?
No, I suppose not. At the end of the day, no matter how much I hate what I've written, no matter how much I abhor the words I choose to keep, the words I effortlessly and carelessly spew out onto the page, no matter how much I suck, I still can't fill in that blank. And until I can realistically fill in that blank, I gotta stick with it, or die.
And somehow, death doesn't fill in that blank, either. *
*This is not meant to be an inspiring, 1990's pseudo-hopeful comment, or anything positive at all in the way of wrapping up a post. It's actually more of a resignation, like, Dammit, this one doesn't work either. Where is the screw that will fit? Where is the profession that fits like a glove? Will I toil and struggle along in my life forever? Where is happiness, fulfillment, functionality? These things have been promised to me by a man who died several years ago, and I wonder if his promises outlast the breath that delivers them.