Hello deer readers, and human ones as well. Hahaha. See what I did there? Aren’t I funny? No? Okay. Sorry.
I have returned home from a ten day trip to my mothership, California, which would sound like a vacation if it weren’t for the numerous clusterfucks that are presently taking over my life. I’m lethargic, and exhaustion has consumed my entire soul. After my 5 hour flight, I stepped out of the airplane, walked through the airport, and onto an escalator that promised me a reunion with my luggage. As I descended, only one thought really crossed my mind: what’s the point?
I realize this sounds incredibly depressing. That is most likely due the fact that it is definitely depressing. I have suffered from depression along with many other illnesses and disorders (check the CheatCode if you’re curious) since I came into this world writhing with confusion. And now, nearly 26 years later, I still often find myself writhing with confusion, albeit slightly less screamy. I am nearly 30, I have no hard earned degree, no solid career, barely any money, no plan, am chronically ill yet without insurance, and don’t seem to belong anywhere at all. While I strive daily to improve these conundrums, there are some days, such as today, where I am too weak to carry on, and I feel trapped within the walls of my own brain which is like a broken record, repeating over and over, what’s the point?
These are the days when I try to remind myself that despite the overwhelming loneliness that accompanies my existential crisis, I am not actually alone. I gently recall that Neil Gaiman was a starving writer at one point in his life, along with JK Rowling who was barely getting by on welfare. I think of Chris Pratt, a chubby stoner living out of his van turned actor, husband and father. I think of my favorite band Blink-182, and how one of their first shows was in a bar with no audience. I am sure that all of these now better off people of note often wondered in their younger years, “what’s the point?” just as I am now, as I lay in my bed, frozen by my own existence.
However, I also have to wonder if those people, in the time of their crises, were comforted by the fact that The Beatles were said to never go anywhere or by Walt Disney’s failed animation company. Am I, myself, inspired by the past struggles of those who I now look up to? These little facts should get me out of bed and motivate me, but instead I am left curious not by their success, but how they got through this painful, aching of the soul that they felt before success was within their reach.
Coincidentally (or not, depending on how you look at it), the point of this post is mostly unknown. It is mainly allowing me to rant about the fact that I feel as if I am wandering through life aimlessly, and how helpless and hopeless that wandering feels. My heart is heavy; so heavy it often falls from my chest to the pit of my stomach.
This afternoon, I took a break from writing to have a breakdown. I sat on my couch, looked out at the not at all uplifting, grey sky, and I cried out in fear, pain, and frustration. I mumbled over and over, “help me, help me,” to my invisible audience, and I begged for them to tell me how to get out of the deep pit that is my current life. I even got so desperate as to actually google how to fix a broken life. Naturally, I got millions of hits, all with a billion different solutions. I only clicked one link, a blog post by someone I didn’t know, and read his explanations of the five things one must do before fixing their broken life. I can’t remember all five, but one stood out to me. The subheading shouted at me in their bold font, realize that fixing a broken life takes a fucking buttload of time. I mean, I’m paraphrasing, but that was the gist of it. And that one sentence allowed me to steal a breath of air in between my sobs.
One attribute 99.9% of all humans lack is patience. I am generally quite patient with others, but God forbid if I must be patient with myself. I desire change now, and I want to get it all right now, and if I don’t, I’m a massive fuck up and should probably just quit. That isn’t exactly healthy thinking now, is it? I fail to understand that massive, true changes to a life don’t just happen, and they definitely don’t happen without struggle and mistakes. Life is not a straight line from one point to another. It’s more like the kind of scribble a two year old draws all over the hallway that makes a parent want to rip their own hair out. All that anyone is ever trying to do is get through this scribbly life thing and make something positive out of it. We’re all just trying to, well, for lack of a better explanation, get to the point.
I don’t know how I am going to get through all of the dreadful situations I am currently in. However, I have to keep the idea that I will get through it. I truly believe that when a person loses everything, when the very idea of getting out of bed each morning is too much to bear, the only thing that is left is hope. We must have hope, because sometimes it’s all we can hold onto. A tiny glimpse of hope can turn into a thought, thoughts turn into chances, and chances turn into change.
I am hoping for change, the good kind, for once. And if whoever reading this is in desperate need as I am, I will hope for you too, because while it isn’t ideal, right now it is the best I can do.
Though the pressure’s hard to take, it’s the only way I can escape.
It seems a heavy choice to make, and now I am under all.
And it’s breaking over me, a thousand miles down to the sea bed.
Found the place to rest my head.
Never let me go.
And the arms of the ocean are carrying me.
And all this devotion was rushing out of me.
And the crashes are heaven for a sinner like me.
But the arms of the ocean delivered me.