Part of the problem is the inherent narcissism involved in writing, and especially in blogging. I constantly talk about the fact that I write for myself and no one else. What could be more selfish than that? And in this kind of blog, where I talk mostly about my life, the selfishness is increased tenfold. Is it any wonder my experience this Lent has been less than fulfilling. It's like I purposefully sabotaged it by choosing an activity that goes against the self-sacrificing spirit of the season.
Of course the flip side is that perhaps my writing has given me the opportunity to bring to the surface some thoughts and feelings that would normally stay hidden. Maybe my writing is a purging of the poisons inside of me so I can be healthier and can fill the vacuum left behind with better things. The problem is the process is quite unpleasant. It's been emotionally draining and has forced me to question who I am and where I'm going and in some cases where I've been.
Making it worse, I'm doing it in a public sphere as opposed to somewhere private like therapy or a private journal. I'm spewing all this nastiness on my friends who were probably only expecting a quick overview of what my day was like (of course, if they know me, they had to know that's not the way I tend to write). Initially I thought sharing these ideas might help others who felt this way. But I'm not sure all this ugliness is actually doing that. If it's making me more miserable and not helping others, maybe I'd be better off not doing it?
I don't know.
I'd hate to give up now, with only a couple of weeks left, but can't help thinking we'd all be better off if I did.
But for now we'll plow on. Thanks to all those who responded to my last posts. It's strange - I sound much more depressed in my writing than I actually feel. Hopefully that's some consolation to those who feared I might be going off the deep end. Contentment seems to be the issue - I'm not content with the way I am and perhaps I need to be. But as another blogger friend pointed out, once we become content, we stop trying to change, stop trying to make tomorrow better than the day before. At least that's the tendency. And perhaps that's one of my fears: that if I accept I will never get married, I will no longer put myself in situations where I could meet someone. I know, I know - it's when you stop looking that love finds you. Sorry, that may work for some people but it's never worked for me. Not that actively searching has done wonders either...It's not an either/or thing. Contentment and hope aren't mutually exclusive. At least I hope not. But how do we feel content when we're always hoping for something else out of our lives?
Been reading Klosterman's latest, Eating the Dinosaur. His essay on voyeurism, "Through the Glass, Blindly," touches on part of what I've been feeling/experiencing:
What are the things that make adults depressed? The master list is too comprehensive to quantify (plane crashes, unemployment, killer bees, impotence, Stringer Bell's murder, gambling, addictions, crib death, the music of Bon Iver, et al.). But whenever people talk about their personal bouts of depression in the abstract, there are two obstructions I hear more than any other: The possibility that one's life is not important, and the mundane predictability of day-to-day existence. Talk to a depressed person (particularly one who's nearing midlife), and one (or both) of these problems will inevitably be described. Since the end of World War II, every generation of American children has been endlessly conditioned to believe that their lives are supposed to be great - a meaningful life is not just possible, but required. Part of the reason forward-thinking media networks like Twitter succeed is because people want to believe that every immaterial thing they do is pertinent by default; it's interesting because it happened to them, which translates as interesting to all. At the same time, we concede that a compelling life is supposed to be spontaneous and unpredictable - any artistic depiction of someone who does the same thing every day portrays that character as tragically imprisoned (January Jones on Mad Men, Ron Livingston in Office Space, the lyrics to "Eleanor Rigby," all novels set in affluent suburbs, pretty much every project Sam Mendes has ever conceived, etc.). If you know exactly what's going to happen tomorrow, the voltage of that experience is immediately mitigated. Yet most lives are the same, 95 percent of the time. And most lives aren't extrinsically meaningful, unless you're delusionally self-absorbed or authentically Born Again. So here's where we find the creeping melancholy of modernity: The one thing all people are supposed to inherently deserve - a daily subsistence that's both meaningful and unpredictable - tends to be an incredibly rare commodity.
The two obstructions he points out - an unimportant life and a mundane predictability - are what I've been struggling with. And look, it's happening just before my 40th birthday. Great. I'm a cliché. But at least I'm not alone - can't be if I'm a cliché, right?
And I've run out of ideas and the fact that I slept not at all last night isn't helping. So I guess I'll keep writing for now. I only ask that you, my faithful readers, take my thoughts with a grain of salt. In some cases, with an entire saltlick's worth. 'Til tomorrow. Æ
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