This has been something of a frustrating week – my life marred (as usual) by my own shortcomings. I lost Sunday, where I was supposed to be attending a show by the ever-more-popular Kamikaze Pro Wrestling, to a bitch of a hangover that left me totally bed-ridden until 11pm. I am not 21 anymore. While I regret nothing about Saturday and the decisions I made, I need to cut down on my drinking so I can actually haul myself to where I need to be afterwards.
Not that that’s guaranteed. Despite no longer having the variable shift pattern to contend with, I can’t seem to regulate my sleep. Last night’s game was ‘being dog tired, then having a panic attack for a while, before falling asleep for 11 hours’. I just can’t seem to get this ‘regular sleep’ thing to happen no matter how hard I try. I mean, I have to keep trying, so I can pretend I’m a functioning member of society, but sometimes I wish I could just go with the flow and waver between bursts of activity and crashes.
Furthermore, I have been trying to work myself up to writing fiction again. It may not seem like much of a big ask, but I’m getting a sense of paralysis every time I think about doing it. It’s probably just the usual writers’ angst: the belief that one’s writing is shit that is usually only overcome by the fear of disapproval when deadlines are missed. Or alcoholism, but, you know, see above… As such, I probably ought to try some exercises. Like sitting in front of a blank page and not fucking move until I’ve written something, no matter how execrable. But then, I’m confronted by the usual set of anxieties about how I ought to be doing something that’s somebody else’s idea of contructive will start rearing their ugly heads. As they do when I try to do anything that isn’t reading buzzfeed links from facebook.
So my jobhunt crawls on slowly, while I get annoyed with myself that I’m not doing enough for self-improvement and watch entropy consume a bedroom that I spent three days solid cleaning not so many weeks ago. And (speaking of writing) yes, this is just another rambling, stream-of-consciousness post while I try to fulfill a personal quota.
I don’t know what conclusions to draw from all of this. Sometimes I think I’m tired of life. I’ve felt passively suicidal a few times recently, and that’s starting to worry me a little. I want to think I’m starting to wake up again, as I said over a week ago, but I just feel like there’s a stretched void of nothing inside me right now. And maybe that’s as much of a barrier to my doing things as the anxieties. I don’t like feeling as though I only exist, but freedom from the mistakes of the last couple of years isn’t turning out to be a magical cure…