It’s like I’ve been lying to myself. I give myself goals for the day and the week. They get me out of bed. Which in turn gets me out of my room. Showering, changing, eating—all of these are more likely to happen if I leave my room, and after building a routine it’s more likely that such activity will become repetitive.
Most of my repeating goals are based around either my personal blog entries or my comic book reviews. Social media work supports both of those. I tell myself that these are worthwhile endeavors—that writing and building a social media presence will ultimately pay off because I want to get back to writing fiction and pursuing the one and only dream I’ve ever had. The added bonus is that these testimonials give me another way of looking at my condition. And also I like comic books.
I don’t take satisfaction from any of it. The writing, the goal achieving, the page views and retweets—nothing sticks. It feels like another way to mark time. Which I suppose is fine if it gets me anywhere in the long term.
Except the last two weeks there’s been some fantastic family drama swirling in near proximity to me and it’s obliterated my routine. What I’ve discovered is that putting the routine back together is much harder than it was to assemble the first time. Maybe that’s because I can look back on it and see the pointlessness. There’s no reason to do any of it. I don’t feel one iota better. I’m every bit as miserable now as when I began.
Good lord, I’m watching all the shit in this episode of Jessica Jones and missing how meth made me happy, sex gave me a rush, and alcohol made me not care.
I’m writing this on Friday night. I need food. I don’t want to make it. I have a delivery order on Pizza Hut’s website, but if I order it I’ll have to leave my room to wait for the delivery guy. Don’t really want to do that, either.
The problem isn’t, “How do I put it back together?” It’s more, “What the fuck difference does it make and why should I bother trying?”
So that was Friday. Today is Sunday.
Was I being petulant and whiny? I don’t know. Maybe. But that was how I felt. Truthfully it’s how I still feel. I did end up ordering the pizza—very brave of me. Generally speaking I’ve barely left my room for the past four days. Which is a problem since I don’t have a pantry and refrigerator in my room. Today I’ve eaten a bag of corn nuts and some small Milky Ways.
Have I mentioned I’m the pinnacle of health?
The problem with Friday was that I spent it thinking. Having no particular activity to keep me busy—to focus on—my thoughts had free reign to run wild. And unfortunately my thoughts are dark, depressing things. I start thinking about all the things I’ve done. About all the things I want to do. About the number of ways things can still go wrong. For a while I was reading or playing video games to solve this problem. But that’s not “productive” so I’ve tried other avenues. There’s household chores. Of course that would require leaving my room which I’m not back up to doing just yet. So then the writing for reasons mentioned two days ago.
But as I said I get no satisfaction from any of it. Maybe a blip here or there but it’s lost almost immediately. So I find myself wondering whether I’m doing anything other than marking time like with the reading and video games—distracting myself so I don’t notice how much I continue to hate pretty much everything about my life and who I am.
Even now, with two days’ worth of entries and reviews, I hate virtually everything about where I am and what I’m doing. And the writing isn’t helping to distract me anymore.