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2003-04-25
9:47 a.m.
To a certain extent, I think most of my troubles revolve around the amount of sleep my body requires for me to be able to function properly. Last night, I went to bed at 8:30 and this morning I woke up at 5:00. I feel so much better today than I have the previous days this week.
And that’s okay.
Recently, I’ve been finding myself stuck in the confines of my past. I’ve been struggling to escape from the overwhelming feeling that I’ve not accomplished anything or gained anything in my life in the last five years. I know I feel that way because when my past haunts me, it haunts me entirely. It sweeps me away, into a black mist that fills my nostrils and sticks to the inside of my lungs like the tar from the cigarettes I used to smoke.
And then I remember how much I loved to smoke.
Once I remember how much I loved to smoke, it all goes downhill from there. This is the best time of year for smoking. The cool spring breeze feels so much nicer on my arms when I’m smoking, inhaling the fresh air mixed with toxins until I feel an absolute high. Goddamn the medications. I haven’t felt a high in years.
Aside from the smoking, though, there’s the realization that I desperately miss college, as I always knew I would. I miss the people. I miss the atmosphere. I miss the people telling me what to do and how to do it and then being told how wonderful I am and how smart I am. I miss my old job at school. I miss the all-night parties and the drunken stupors that led to many a random act of ridiculous frivolity. I miss the ability to act without regard to possible repercussions.
God, I miss it.
It doesn’t surprise me to recognize this because I’ve always known this deep inside, but I am absolutely terrified of growing old. I want to be a teenager still. I want the fresh rawness of emotion. I want the independent freedom of knowing I can do whatever the hell I want and no one will reprimand me. I want drinking to be enjoyable again. I want drugs to be innocent again, not tainted by the fact that they have fucked me up beyond repair.
I feel so boring.
Despite all these feelings, though, there is the underlying feeling that I am somewhat relaxed in the daily routine of my life. I may despise it at times (most of the time), but it’s safe, and there are few things that are. I don’t know if anything I like is safe. So it’s somewhat satisfying to know that the world will revolve around me without too much interference, and I can pick and choose what I want without worrying about it too much.
I guess that’s okay.
I’m taking a class right now called The Hero in European Literature, and the book we have to read this week is Hermann Hesse’s Steppenwolf. Even though I’ve already read the book, I’m reading it again because it’s one of my very favorite books. So, I’m reminded of the “hero” in the book and all the theories Hesse outlines as important to the life of an outsider. For awhile, I had a quote from the book up on my website, and I think it can be repeated here with relevance:
“And if ever the suspicion of their manifold being dawns upon men of unusual powers and of unusually delicate perceptions, so that, as all genius must, they break through the illusion of the unity of the personality and perceive that the self is made up of a bundle of selves, they have only to say so and at once the majority puts them under lock and key, calls science to aid, establishes schizomania and protects humanity from the necessity of hearing the cry of truth from the lips of these unfortunate persons.”
I am here, alive after all the years of an indescribable suffering, after all the heroic attempts to remain alive despite the overwhelming, nagging sensations that death would be better than life, because I feel the need to proclaim the truth to all those people who don’t know it and don’t want to hear it. But I have been limiting myself to the safety net of my depression. Depression is what I know most intimately. Therefore, it has become the means for me to define my personality.
But there’s so much more to me than that.
As Emerson said, contradiction is a necessary part of life. There’s no need for me to feel as though I must contain myself within the bounds of a defining depression. I can contradict it whenever I want to. If some delicate part of my soul decides to reveal a sudden glimpse of satisfaction, that’s okay. Other parts of my personality exist, though less prominently, and perhaps it’s time that I start listening to those parts more closely.
