I’m repetitive. I know this. This blog is a sort of whirling dervish of my garden variety anxieties and neuroses. I don’t post often because I think it’s tacky.They’re thinly veiled “essays” on my state of mind and attempts at articulating certain, how shall I say, ‘issues’. Is that the right word?
Here I am on a Monday night. Family day actually. Listening to some Wye Oak. Thinking about writing. Trying to read but getting distracted. Kicking myself. The usual. As I type this I’m thinking about LiveJournal. I couldn’t keep that up when I was fifteen, but some of my friends logged hours updating and writing post after post, drenched in high-school angst, but nevertheless lovingly created. The blogosphere wasn’t yet a fully formed living breathing beast of information and opinions. People who dared to compose rice-paper thin post about conflicts, loves and whatever popped into their mind, were taking the next step at defining themselves through electronic culture. It’s endearing now. Livejournal. It was a platform for people to create the persona they wanted everyone else in their lives, and strangers, to see them for. Thhe articulate and wry selves. Not the stumbling, inarticulate, over-thinking or shy person people had gotten all too used to.
Myspace, Facebook, Twitter and the plethora of other social networking platforms took the widespread selfconcious and image conscious anxieties of an entire generation and have made millions off of redefining ourselves with one posted video and status update at a time.
This blog has veered strangely off of the trajectory I ever expected for it. Like I said it is repetitive. It’s shallow. Very shallow. My writings are cowardly attempts to speak my mind. I’m too nervous and dogged by the habit of overthinking, that self-destructive inner critic, to tell people how I really feel about them. Or even tell them how I feel about myself.
My public face has always been chipper, talkative…happy-go-lucky wouldn’t be much of a stretch. Whenever I dane to lower my head in introspection I get shot looks of sympathy and worry. Like people don’t believe that I’m capable of shutting up for a second or taking something serious. On the flip side of that I’m terrified that people think I just blow smoke, that I talk alot but say very little.
This past weekend I tried to explain to a friend about my current crises of not knowing what to do with my life: work, education, friends and relationships etc. In my attempt to articulate the impasse, I sounded like spluttering idiot. Incapable of dealing with one of the many trifles that life throws you. As I spluttered, ending every statement with: “You know what I mean?” Which was inevitably met with a puzzled look and “Uh … no not really”. I felt retarded. I felt incompetent. I couldn’t even confide in one of my closest friends because I was terrified he was going to judge me.
I used to pride myself on speaking my mind. On being forthright and clever. Now I just seem to be sheepishly chasing my tail and trying desperately to say the right thing. And thinking too much on what that right thing could possibly be. And that aware composition of a personality is what has made me indecisive and tongue tied.
Being aware of this is even worse then being in denial of it. Why can’t I just change my ways? Why can’t I just stop it? Stop over-thinking every detail, every laugh and observation? Just let it flow. People will notice the ease. I am confident but in an aggressive and strident way. Why can’t I just be natural? What am I afraid of?
I’m waiting for someone to give me the answer. Or for someone to be the answer. For someone to come and coax me out of my hermit shack and prove that I am worth … something.
I’m grappling here. For those of you who have braved the early-twenties angst up till this point will probably have figured that out by now.
So where do I go from here? At the beginning of the year I said I would achieve independence and clarity. But it’s still so fucking muddy. I’m behaving the way I’ve always behaved, to be honest. When I was a child I hated doing crafts or sports because I wanted to be good and the best at them right away and when I wasn’t I would give up. I was the same in school: putting all my energies into what I was good at and letting my less interesting courses fall by the wayside. Now it’s a case of happiness and contentment … if I don’t know the magic formula, I give up. It’s not very grown up is it?
But here I am with a petty little post on Monday night rambling on about nothing imparticular. Nothing of great import. Self-indulgent, navel gazing trite. I know about five people who read this blog. So what do I expect to gain from this? What is the point of posting stuff like this over and over on a public blog?
I suppose the answer would be: the faint hope that someone is listening.