20.02.21

Fuck I wish it would rain.

I’m out of sorts, man. I’m just so fucking sick of everything. I took a tally of how many times I’ve thought about dying this week, and so far we’re at 17. Wait. Now it’s 18.

When it’s not the void, it’s the misery, and if not that, then it’s the rage.

So what do you do with all that anger? Masturbation is a good way to vent it out, sure. But an orgasm or two doesn’t keep the emptiness at bay. Sooner or later (usually the former) it comes back, and then you’re right back where you started.

What do you do when you realise that your life just isn’t gonna be anything other than mundane? How do you get up every day, knowing that today is going to be just the same as yesterday? Running away is a good idea in theory, but it’s a temporary solution at best. Clean slate? Never. You always bring some baggage with you, that’s the inevitability of existence.

I’m just so goddamn tired of being alive.

Small seemingly insignificant things hurt far more than they reasonably should. It’s like having your heart gouged out with a wooden spoon. Splinters are the worst, right? I wish I could just scrub the memory from my brain, but it’s there like a neon light in the darkness. Stupid light.

There’s so much I wish I could say. Not that it would make a difference even if I could speak the words aloud. But the things left unsaid are sometimes the heaviest burdens to carry. So we stay silent. I guess this is just the way things are.

Fuck I wish it would rain.

Fractured (and a Little Bit Lost)

I’m not going to pretend I’m writing my second blog post in as many days because I have anything particularly interesting to say. The truth of the matter is that I have nothing to do at work, and I am kind of grumpy, and I am angry at myself for doing something last night that I told myself I wasn’t going to do anymore. Plus, in typical Amy fashion, I am wallowing in existential angst and wondering what the hell I am supposed to be doing with this life of mine, that seems to be casually passing me by.

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Right now I feel about as fragile as a piece of glass, and the smallest amount of pressure is going to be enough to fracture me into a billion tiny pieces. My emotions feel like a raw, exposed wound and I am struggling to keep it all together, even though all I really want to do is explode out of my skin.

I am so, so very sick of feeling this way. I feel like I post about it periodically, which I’m sure you’re all tired of reading about. But no matter what I do, I can’t seem to shake this feeling. I’ve been thinking a lot about where I am, and how I think who I am is being shaped by my circumstance, and my location. I said to a friend of mine on the weekend that I feel like I can’t really become the person I am meant to be until I get out of this state.

I don’t think it’s an uncommon thing, particularly amongst people in their 20’s, to feel like they’re still becoming. I think as a general rule, we have this notion that we’re not who we’re supposed to be yet, and that we have to spend the next however many years figuring that out. That’s certainly how I’ve been feeling lately. I feel like I’m not able to be authentically me yet, because I don’t have the freedom to reinvent myself into who I want to become. I feel as though I am living in this shell of myself, and that I need something explosive to break it open and reveal the real Amy underneath. Logically, I know that moving away isn’t going to change who I am. I know this, because I’ve moved away a few times, and I’ve always come back to my home town more or less the same person. But it doesn’t stop me from dreaming of the day I can finally have my own house. And when I think about that house, I think of it as being as far away from my home town as I can get without moving to another country.

What I think I need, is to move so far away that it isn’t easy to just come back home. I need something completely new and fresh, and different. Yes, wherever I go there will still be people who annoy me (thanks, customer service) and I know that wherever I go, my mental health is going to come along for the ride. I know that I will still have doubts, and states of depression, and fears and probably a lot of sleepless nights. I am not naive enough to think that moving away is going to change my life so drastically that I’ll wonder why I never did it sooner. But at the same time, I don’t think it’s too much of a stretch to believe that a fresh start can be cathartic, therapeutic even. At any rate, I have to believe that there is something better for me than what I have now.

I wrote this post today, because I needed to create something. I am stuck at work until 5:30 and every particle of my being is screaming out to make art, in one form or another. I feel trapped here, stuck in this godforsaken shopping centre, and this small square shop, and I am battling my very emotions, as well as my very irresponsible desire to just leave and never come back. But, as yesterday’s post will attest, I have a stupid adult obligation to stay where I am, at least until I have enough of a financial buffer behind to allow for the kind of freedom I so desperately crave.

Life is hard, and I’m angry and I kind of just want someone to bring me their dog so I can cuddle it.

Bad Decisions, and Not-So-Green Grass

Do you ever have a run of seriously bad decision making? I’ve been having one of those for…well, pretty much this whole year. I’ve been in this cycle of feeling stuck, and making changes to try to better my situation, only to have it completely backfire and turn out worse than before. That whole thing about the grass not being greener on the other side has definitely hit home with me lately.

I have stuck around where I should have walked, and walked away from things I should have stuck with. I have completely uprooted my life for the possibility of something better, and had it be a huge disappointment. I’m no happier now than I was at the start of the year, and I think that’s what is really getting to me recently. I just turned 24 and I think I am the unhappiest I have ever been, and it is all the result of decisions I’ve made that I thought were going to improve my situation. Oh, I had grand plans. But one by one, they have failed and both my life, and the dreams I had have withered away and turned to dust. How’s that for some emo teenage regression?

I just don’t know what to do anymore. I’m having this giant existential crisis and trying to battle the ever increasing numbness that has damn near engulfed me entirely. The energy is drained out of me and what life I had has been swallowed up by the daily grind. I feel like my future isn’t even in my hands. When I’ve tried to be strong and take control of it, somehow it always fails spectacularly, and I find myself right back at the start again. It’s like driving along an endless highway, with no destination, no rest in sight, and nothing to look at but the bleak expanses of my own mundane existence.

And see the thing is, they keep telling you that if you don’t like something about your life, then you should change it. Well, I did change it, but that doesn’t seem to be working too well for me. Perhaps I’m doing something wrong?

Existential Angst, and the Big Question

For the last four or five years, I have kept a diary. Sometimes there are things you can’t blog about, can’t talk about. Sometimes you just need to get the thoughts out of your head. My diary knows more about me than even my closest friends. So I sure do hope it’s not in the habit of gossiping! Anyway, I went to write in my diary tonight and nothing happened. My pen sat poised above the paper, and my hand refused to move. All the crazy, mixed up thoughts swirling around in my head, and I couldn’t seem to release any of them. Except one. And really, that one thought pretty much summed up everything.

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what the hell am I doing?’ I know I’m not the only one to have ever had that thought. I know there are billions of people in the world who have had extended bouts of existential angst, and found themselves wondering about their purpose. I know I’m not alone. So where are the solutions? Where is my answer? What the fucking hell am I doing?

As the end of the year draws closer, I realise that I am almost exactly where I was at the start of the year. I mean yeah, I moved out and have just financed a new car. But I’m still working the same job in the same town and I am no closer to achieving my goals. And the more I think about it, the more I realise I don’t even know what my goals are anymore. I have less and less faith in my writing abilities, and I’m not really good at anything else. And moreover, I don’t have a clue what I would like to do. Sure, there’s the dream of creating, but is it a really viable option? Can I have any real measure of success with the limited skills I’ve managed to develop over the last twenty three years?

So what is my solution? Spend the rest of my life working for other people and earning just enough to pay my bills and my rent and my loan, and then go home to an empty house and eat Mi Goreng while I try to coax some love out of pets that only show me any interest when I’m feeding them? I just want to create and have adventures and have a house with a room entirely dedicated to books. And I want a job that I am passionate about. I just need to figure out what it is that I’m passionate about. And that’s the trouble.

I need an oracle, or a fortune teller, or a mind reader or the bloody Sorting Hat. A sign, a surprise opportunity, a coma from which I awake having had a grand epiphany. Someone or something to point me in the right direction, and tell me what I’m supposed to be doing. I know I’m too young to be worrying about this. But most other people I know seem to have their shit together and I’m gonna be honest with you here, guys; I’m starting to panic.