Freakley told me last night to turn my shittiness into art. Personal motto: “redeem garbage”, apparently. This is what she told me when we first met in early ’07, too.
“Make art!” she says.
She’s good like that.
Trouble is, my shittiness basically consists of an inability to put any meaningful form or shape around anything. Narrative failure. Everything seems completely empty and pointless. Whinge piss moan blah.
When I crash, I tear myself to pieces trying to Figure Myself And Everything Generally Out – metaphysical arms flailing comically – until I feel my sanity seriously starting to disintegrate. Then I give up, and just live vacantly from one atomized moment to the next.
There’s not much you can make from that. Got art? Well, no. That’s kind of the problem.
That said, this here blog was originally started in a bid to pull myself out of that void. And it totally worked, over time.
But the last two times I’ve been seriously down since then (mid ’06; mid ’07), I didn’t really talk about it much here. It seemed self-sabotaging to advertise it too explicitly. And also pointless. Natch.
I didn’t really socialise, either. This time I am, a bit. I worry that’s similarly self-sabotaging and is doing irrepairable damage to the relationships in question.
Contact with other people gives you (some) perspective, makes you feel less alone, and generally makes life a bit easier. All of which is nice.
But ultimately allowing people to see much of you when you’re like this just weakens you further. It just fuels the negative self image which is getting you so down in the first place.
“Hi, my existence is a gaping abyss of infinite horror; I feel completely worthless and useless, and I don’t really give a shit about anything except how useless and worthless I feel. Er.. how are you?” Doesn’t help.
Meh; I’m on the up, gradually.
I was really in hell a few months ago.
I’m not in hell now. Just – yeah – a big ol’ envoided vacuum of blah.
And I won’t be here forever.