I feel like after spending a few good hours alone, I start to connect to my best self. My best self is loving, wacky and curious.
That core of me remembers my youth, mum and childhood. Of just drawing out of habit, not out of stress to be a proffesional.
What does it mean to return to myself? Well it’s something warm that isn’t affected by others. I am hyper sensitive, and somehow always end up taking other people’s actions as something I need to worry about.
Being my best is about not being affected by fears of judgement. Maybe because I’ve gone through all sorts of judgement, individual, voyeristic until I ended up hospitalized. Even then I stole someone’s wifi to post embarassing content that made no sense. Look at me, I’ve screamed whether I meant to or not. It’s taken time, but I feel such pride welling up that I’ve gotten this far.
It’s a feeling in everything.
When I see someone mention their designer game whatever job. A jab in my stomach saying ‘they are better than you’. No they aren’t, nobody is lesser or greater, despite what society wants to say. Society wants to make strugglers feel bad, I remind myself. I now have learnt to quiet myself.
I lost my sense of pride. Not many people will experience this, maybe losing a leg or being so drugged up you drive a car off a cliff, but it is different. It isn’t all damage to body, mind, property or relationships I caused, just loss of pride.
It may challenge me anytime I think maybe people are assessing my appearance. Am I the ugly redhead, I correct myself, tears in my eyes, No I am rather quite cute, this toxicity is the only thing holding me back. I try not to cry, but it’s too bigger. Being nice to myself feels so foreign. It feels wrong.
It feels like something that won’t ‘get me places’, as if being content with my art will make Roman Empire come crashing down. Perfectionism fuels improvement, but what about when you CAN’T improve? I am in the awkward rock jutted spot. I cannot move. I scream between two boulders like a video game character lost in the polys. Even if it’s unnatural for me to fight these aggressive thoughts, on my best days I do a good job.
For example, when I worried the girl next to me in class maybe ‘didnt like me’. Something in her look of disinterest, then I remembered, I am prone to accidentally making those faces when I’m upset over my own shit, it isn’t any sort of attack on me. Insecure people think it’s all about themselves, it’s so hard to get out of our heads isn’t it?
I’m genuinely working to get out of my head. I relapse into hate, I admit. I know that. I like to read horrible right-wing comics because of the vicarious rush of righteousness and cruelty it gives me. I probably frighten people in the unPC things I say, but it is not my job to feel bad if I laugh at a post about obese people attacking others on their appearance. It’s fire with fire, but it’s what we are. It makes my monkey brain light up seeing content that opposes this coddling society.
My brain needs an outlet for hate, maybe that is why so many people participate in subversive memes. I don’t want it to be the bulk of my free time, but it makes something in my brain light up. It doesn’t make anyone a bigot to view these images, or discuss these images. When people tell you ‘you can’t follow this guy’s I say, you are trying to police people, and need to go outside.
The reason I said depression is an indulgence is because I have had to work incredibly hard to fight it.
Do people see me as the wrinkly old lady in the phone mirror. I feel my withering form and resign to my fate. I can’t help what people think of me.
I’ve decided to resign myself to be happy. To be a good person and smile through all my loneliness. The steady March of age and sag of my flesh as I succumb to the years in front of me full of death.