Worlds
The weather is reminding me of where I was just about a year ago, and the months following - all of which turned out to be just another beginning, rather than the torturous journey's end I'd hoped for. I'd been in my apartment a few weeks by this time - long enough to put most things away, but probably still angry my landlords hadn't cleaned like they promised. I still feel like there's dirt I missed. I spent much of the summer of 2012 worrying, like I am now. I'd sit out on the small square of porch that's mine, and smoke cigarette after cigarette, praying to a God I've yet to hear from, and pleading for things to hurry up and work out.
I think I was up until 3am or later every night, simply from fear of going to bed and awaking to whatever horror the next day could bring. I was entirely uninterested in the productive activities available to me, while in full ache and desperation for what I did not have and could not do. Most of the time, I'd sit and stare at a monitor of some kind, thinking helplessly about all the things that had slipped, or were slipping, away. Sadly, over a year later, I find myself practically in the same shape and very much worse for the wear.
By moving to Chicago, I hoped to spend my nights cured of all that ailed me in the suburbs. I thought I'd be using my unusually large bathroom to dance around, while pausing practically to put on glittery make up and check in with the onset of new best friends I'd surely be heading out to meet right down the block. I imagined I would find a high quality male friend to fool around with regularly, no strings attached, as I'd be too busy making a life for myself to bother with some dumb old relationship. I planned to speak perfect Spanish to all my neighbors, and dine frequently at the pupuseria on the corner. I believed I'd be gainfully employed within the year, now that I was finally close enough to all the necessary buildings. And I thought I would WRITE, PERFORM, AND DIRECT, ENDLESSLY. I truly saw these things for myself, because I have done nothing but work for them, I deserve them, and I am good at them. This was to finally be my happiness. Yet, not a bit of the sort has come to be true.
Other, similar things have come along, but they are hard, costly, and unfulfilling. I am still constantly catering to the whims and wishes of those ahead of me - whether they deserve to be or not. I am not in creative roles. I am not in well-paying roles. I am merely existing in the world of show business, much like how I merely exist in everyday life. I am far from happy, and most of my time is spent painfully aware of this fact.
And not unrelated, it seems all I can ever write about is how miserable I am. Though I feel I do it well, I can't imagine why anyone but myself would find it worth reading. And now, I can no longer even claim the worst life in the world, because three or more women in Cleveland have exceeded my torment. I hope their lives before and after make up for the between, and I can eventually again reclaim my throne - though from a point of success and looking back, not through worse means. No good person should suffer that much, or even this much. I just want their lives to become immediately joyous and worth all they had to go through.
Regardless, I cannot tell if I am in a better place than a year ago or not. I do know I am still not in a good place.
I have gotten quite far career-wise, but without stability or guaranteed promise. I am of course in absolute disarray everywhere else. I am broke, old, tired, and unhealthy. I feel like the clock ran out months ago, and I'm just on borrowed time. There is nothing between me and failure (or even death) but the fine line of fight I've been balancing on since December. And it could all be over in a blink or a flinch.
I must find a way to start taking care of myself. I wish I knew how.
I think I was up until 3am or later every night, simply from fear of going to bed and awaking to whatever horror the next day could bring. I was entirely uninterested in the productive activities available to me, while in full ache and desperation for what I did not have and could not do. Most of the time, I'd sit and stare at a monitor of some kind, thinking helplessly about all the things that had slipped, or were slipping, away. Sadly, over a year later, I find myself practically in the same shape and very much worse for the wear.
By moving to Chicago, I hoped to spend my nights cured of all that ailed me in the suburbs. I thought I'd be using my unusually large bathroom to dance around, while pausing practically to put on glittery make up and check in with the onset of new best friends I'd surely be heading out to meet right down the block. I imagined I would find a high quality male friend to fool around with regularly, no strings attached, as I'd be too busy making a life for myself to bother with some dumb old relationship. I planned to speak perfect Spanish to all my neighbors, and dine frequently at the pupuseria on the corner. I believed I'd be gainfully employed within the year, now that I was finally close enough to all the necessary buildings. And I thought I would WRITE, PERFORM, AND DIRECT, ENDLESSLY. I truly saw these things for myself, because I have done nothing but work for them, I deserve them, and I am good at them. This was to finally be my happiness. Yet, not a bit of the sort has come to be true.
Other, similar things have come along, but they are hard, costly, and unfulfilling. I am still constantly catering to the whims and wishes of those ahead of me - whether they deserve to be or not. I am not in creative roles. I am not in well-paying roles. I am merely existing in the world of show business, much like how I merely exist in everyday life. I am far from happy, and most of my time is spent painfully aware of this fact.
And not unrelated, it seems all I can ever write about is how miserable I am. Though I feel I do it well, I can't imagine why anyone but myself would find it worth reading. And now, I can no longer even claim the worst life in the world, because three or more women in Cleveland have exceeded my torment. I hope their lives before and after make up for the between, and I can eventually again reclaim my throne - though from a point of success and looking back, not through worse means. No good person should suffer that much, or even this much. I just want their lives to become immediately joyous and worth all they had to go through.
Regardless, I cannot tell if I am in a better place than a year ago or not. I do know I am still not in a good place.
I have gotten quite far career-wise, but without stability or guaranteed promise. I am of course in absolute disarray everywhere else. I am broke, old, tired, and unhealthy. I feel like the clock ran out months ago, and I'm just on borrowed time. There is nothing between me and failure (or even death) but the fine line of fight I've been balancing on since December. And it could all be over in a blink or a flinch.
I must find a way to start taking care of myself. I wish I knew how.