(no subject)
Another day of misguided pseudo-guidance: these are the most adept professionals in the industry, and, though I’m physically more able to take on the world, my motivation and confidence to do it is still numbingly lacking.
How do I break out of this? How do I accept the fear and move in spite of it? How do I not allow the fear to cripple me into inaction and complacency? I know that I’m capable, but that doesn’t mean I can.
I remember building these elaborate marble mazes when I was a kid, with primary colored pipes, wheels, shoots, and other plastic contortions. There was obviously some skill necessary in building a good course: the blue swirly tube couldn’t go over the red Plink-o pan, because there just wouldn’t be enough momentum to propel the marble through it. Right now I feel like I’m surrounded by the contents of an upturned marble maze box, knowing full well that if I just start connecting stuff I’ll end up with something amusing…but I’m so stymied by the few foibles I could potentially encounter that I am paralyzed, unable to even start sorting through the pieces and messing around.
Was I always so lame? Have I always been so crippled by fear? There was a time when I could do things, complete things, hell, begin things - often with enthusiasm and even excitement. School papers, art projects, relationships: I saw possibility and opportunity instead of a blurry mish-mash of potential pitfalls and disappointing outcomes, each one bleaker than the next. It’s like the writer’s block I began to feel looming over late-night AP Lit papers my senior year of high school has metastasized into every other creative - or basic-functioning - nook of my brain. Not that prior to that I was cranking out cleverly anagrammed political commentary in haiku form, but I did care enough about…stuff…to do…stuff. I cared enough about my thoughts to organize and appropriately articulate them. I cared enough about what I had to say to actually say it - even just to myself.
Here I wake up every morning because I have to get weighed. This morning I immediately dove back into my tiny twin bed the second I was done, pulled the covers over my head, and promptly fell back to sleep until I was called again to fulfill another obligation. I didn’t shower, make my bed, or do my make-up: I’d be going to the Y after lunch, so it really didn’t seem worthwhile to get all prettied up, nor did it seem necessary to make a bed I’d just be sleeping in later. I spent the day wandering obediently from one duty to the next, then ticking away the minutes til that ended and I could move again, until all the boxes on my arbitrary itinerary had been ticked and I found myself back in the same rumpled bed I’d left with the same apathetic shrug I’d given myself.
Tomorrow I’m going to the mall. That’ll be worth some mascara and an “outfit” for.
…but then what?
I’m aching to text Brian. Absolutely fucking aching.
And I know it has absolutely nothing to do with him - I’m so far removed from believing he’ll ever be as good as I wanted him to be (eight years of delusions will do that), but it kills me to think that even someone like that, someone like that who is being absolutely fucking ached for, no less, remains so impossibly elusive. Am I so objectionable that even someone like that wouldn’t want me?
May a nest full of baby birds never fall into your hands!!