When it rains, it pours.
For me, it seems, inspiration is like a pot of water on a gas stove. The amount of gas added to a flame can so easily go from nil to roaring. By the same token, so can the water go from simmering to boiling over: looking for an escape; til it must force the lid and run down the edge causing the flame of its very creation to sizzle and pop and fade. That is kind of how I am in most aspects, but most especially with my writing. Either I have a ton of ideas just simmering but not enough to make pasta...or I’m just an overflow of ideas and something forces them out of my head and through my fingers.
I started reading Prozac Nation, which at first was very difficult, as I’m sure many parts still will be. But at the same time it’s almost eerily comforting. To read my very thoughts and emotions, which for years have been so overwhelming, they’ve become tossed around and jumbled up. That to see them laid out plainly, simply in black and white (of which I’m so fond) in a way that not only is comprehensive to most people, but so very much...me that it kind of fishes out and rearranges my own unworded thoughts, into something I can work with. She says that, for her, depression was a crutch for her writing. And that’s kind of how I’ve come to think of it. Once again, though, not quite been able to word it, not only in so many words, but at all; I have so many ideas but no motivation. No where to go with them. Even writing that does not even express the amotivationalness that is depression. Something I must quote because I am still not to where she was when she wrote this, and it seemed to fit me perfectly: "I don’t care that I don’t care, but I do care maybe a little bit about not caring..." That really struck me because its about the one way to explain the withdrawal and apathy I had during my most depressive moments. That’s kind of like my entire high school experience...If I had to sum it up in one sentence. At least, if I felt I need an excuse for my behavior…and just like the quote, I don’t think I need an excuse, but I feel a little bit bad that I don’t think need one. I guess, for me, I think that if anyone knew, really knew, personally the pain I felt even on the good days, let alone the bad ones that they wouldn’t think twice about my behavior being anything other than completely acceptable. But it’s kind of like trying to rationalize someone’s insanity; you could, but that doesn’t change the fact that they are still insane.
Basically this summer has been a rollercoaster of emotion. Which, ok, I never really liked rollercoasters, but even if you did, you wouldn’t want your life to be like that. To explain: I felt toward the end of last semester a gradual sense of contentness for life in general. That stabled out to a legitimate happiness (which of course manifested through me as extremely zealous and giddiness). The only time I may ever sincerely say "high on life" without even a hint of sarcasm; or perhaps more accurately, high on happiness. Now, I’m not talking happiness because you just got your dream job or found the love of your life...no, this is just the simple day-to-day happiness that the average American takes for granted (and may not ever have any clue what I’m going on about). It lasted all of three weeks. Around the very end of June, but mostly July. July was utter shit, I began gradually going downhill. And just like the metaphor it went much faster than the uphill. I saw personally, and was able to analyze the stages of grief. They are too true. More so, I think with huge life-changing tragedies. Because I’ve tried to map my previous grievances and they never quite lined up like this. As I’m sure most of you are thinking right now I have finally hit Acceptance. It literally took a storm to get me here.
I got out of my first Women Studies class (which was amazing) all set to go to the dinning hall to see if I could catch up with anymore people I hadn’t seen in a while. It was pouring rain. Not the real dark, loud thunderstorm kind, but he gray kind that’s maybe building, but mostly just rain. Lots and lots of rain. So, I stood at the very edge staring out at the rain, thinking what to do. I really didn’t feel like waiting for the rain to stop and was getting hungry, but I couldn’t get soaking and go to the dinning hall. I stood for a minute arguing with myself (in my head) with why I couldn’t just walk home in the rain and get wet. I finally decided there was no reason. Its just water, I had my last class and nowhere to go and nothing to do but to do but homework and such. So, I took off my flip flops, because I’ve made it this far and it would suck to die before I turn 20 (which is soon). I was imagining headlines as I watched fellow Rollins girls scamper in their short, white skirts, of course, slipping and sliding in their flip flops from the slick brick. "Native Floridian girl dies of head injury as a result of a slip and fall. This reporter’s conclusion: rain plus brick roads plus 21st century southern collegiate footwear equals dumbass." So, yea I took off my flip flops and dove in. At first I did that quasi-run people do when they are running to a building or car a few yards away and think that extra bounce in their step will lead to less time in the rain and consequently less wetness. But then I realized I had to walk clear across campus. Why run? By the time I got to my apartment three blocks away I would be wet no matter what. So what? I’m wet...and then I dry. My own conditioned hesitation of walking in the rain surprised me. So, I stopped quasi-running (because I just don’t run, anyway, so it was probably even more queer-looking) and walked a normal pace. I let the rain soak my hair, my clothes and bead up on my skin. It was wonderful. Beautiful and peaceful. It was like the culmination of starting school and seeing people, and getting and being in amazing classes finally allowed the anger and pain and confusion, listlessness, and most of all apathy to just wash away. By the time I got home and peeled off my clothes and stood under the wonderfully hot shower I was laughing and giddy and completely uplifted. I felt cleansed, like I just shed horrible, dead skin that was doing nothing but weighing me down. I was finally fully clean; the way I didn’t even know I needed to be. All done in such a beautifully poetic way that made me feel more real than I can ever remember; just me, alone, utterly real.
I started reading Prozac Nation, which at first was very difficult, as I’m sure many parts still will be. But at the same time it’s almost eerily comforting. To read my very thoughts and emotions, which for years have been so overwhelming, they’ve become tossed around and jumbled up. That to see them laid out plainly, simply in black and white (of which I’m so fond) in a way that not only is comprehensive to most people, but so very much...me that it kind of fishes out and rearranges my own unworded thoughts, into something I can work with. She says that, for her, depression was a crutch for her writing. And that’s kind of how I’ve come to think of it. Once again, though, not quite been able to word it, not only in so many words, but at all; I have so many ideas but no motivation. No where to go with them. Even writing that does not even express the amotivationalness that is depression. Something I must quote because I am still not to where she was when she wrote this, and it seemed to fit me perfectly: "I don’t care that I don’t care, but I do care maybe a little bit about not caring..." That really struck me because its about the one way to explain the withdrawal and apathy I had during my most depressive moments. That’s kind of like my entire high school experience...If I had to sum it up in one sentence. At least, if I felt I need an excuse for my behavior…and just like the quote, I don’t think I need an excuse, but I feel a little bit bad that I don’t think need one. I guess, for me, I think that if anyone knew, really knew, personally the pain I felt even on the good days, let alone the bad ones that they wouldn’t think twice about my behavior being anything other than completely acceptable. But it’s kind of like trying to rationalize someone’s insanity; you could, but that doesn’t change the fact that they are still insane.
Basically this summer has been a rollercoaster of emotion. Which, ok, I never really liked rollercoasters, but even if you did, you wouldn’t want your life to be like that. To explain: I felt toward the end of last semester a gradual sense of contentness for life in general. That stabled out to a legitimate happiness (which of course manifested through me as extremely zealous and giddiness). The only time I may ever sincerely say "high on life" without even a hint of sarcasm; or perhaps more accurately, high on happiness. Now, I’m not talking happiness because you just got your dream job or found the love of your life...no, this is just the simple day-to-day happiness that the average American takes for granted (and may not ever have any clue what I’m going on about). It lasted all of three weeks. Around the very end of June, but mostly July. July was utter shit, I began gradually going downhill. And just like the metaphor it went much faster than the uphill. I saw personally, and was able to analyze the stages of grief. They are too true. More so, I think with huge life-changing tragedies. Because I’ve tried to map my previous grievances and they never quite lined up like this. As I’m sure most of you are thinking right now I have finally hit Acceptance. It literally took a storm to get me here.
I got out of my first Women Studies class (which was amazing) all set to go to the dinning hall to see if I could catch up with anymore people I hadn’t seen in a while. It was pouring rain. Not the real dark, loud thunderstorm kind, but he gray kind that’s maybe building, but mostly just rain. Lots and lots of rain. So, I stood at the very edge staring out at the rain, thinking what to do. I really didn’t feel like waiting for the rain to stop and was getting hungry, but I couldn’t get soaking and go to the dinning hall. I stood for a minute arguing with myself (in my head) with why I couldn’t just walk home in the rain and get wet. I finally decided there was no reason. Its just water, I had my last class and nowhere to go and nothing to do but to do but homework and such. So, I took off my flip flops, because I’ve made it this far and it would suck to die before I turn 20 (which is soon). I was imagining headlines as I watched fellow Rollins girls scamper in their short, white skirts, of course, slipping and sliding in their flip flops from the slick brick. "Native Floridian girl dies of head injury as a result of a slip and fall. This reporter’s conclusion: rain plus brick roads plus 21st century southern collegiate footwear equals dumbass." So, yea I took off my flip flops and dove in. At first I did that quasi-run people do when they are running to a building or car a few yards away and think that extra bounce in their step will lead to less time in the rain and consequently less wetness. But then I realized I had to walk clear across campus. Why run? By the time I got to my apartment three blocks away I would be wet no matter what. So what? I’m wet...and then I dry. My own conditioned hesitation of walking in the rain surprised me. So, I stopped quasi-running (because I just don’t run, anyway, so it was probably even more queer-looking) and walked a normal pace. I let the rain soak my hair, my clothes and bead up on my skin. It was wonderful. Beautiful and peaceful. It was like the culmination of starting school and seeing people, and getting and being in amazing classes finally allowed the anger and pain and confusion, listlessness, and most of all apathy to just wash away. By the time I got home and peeled off my clothes and stood under the wonderfully hot shower I was laughing and giddy and completely uplifted. I felt cleansed, like I just shed horrible, dead skin that was doing nothing but weighing me down. I was finally fully clean; the way I didn’t even know I needed to be. All done in such a beautifully poetic way that made me feel more real than I can ever remember; just me, alone, utterly real.