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Written on the 14th of October 2019.
I can’t really figure out where I am in life these days. I have a place to live, but it’s not my home. I have a job, but it’s an internship, unpaid, and part of the job center program to see how much I can work. I want to live a healthier life, but I don’t know how to get started. Every time I try, I fail. It’s so hard sticking with it. I want to write more and draw more, but my mind somehow manages to convince me that I shouldn’t. And I don’t understand why.
I feel like I’ve been living in this limbo for a long time now. I’ve had so many of these periods in my life, where it feels like I’m just waiting for something to start. Something to change. Something to trigger that spark, that self-discipline, that powerful sensation of suddenly knowing – yes, that’s it! That’s what I gotta do! That’s where I’m heading!
It seems like it always comes down to purpose. Purpose, purpose, purpose. But maybe it’s not just about that. Maybe I’m not just lacking purpose in life. What if it’s something else?
It’s like having a writer’s block, but for everything. A life block, I guess you could call it. I’ve been removed from my life, floating above, looking down, not knowing how to get back. Should I not be taking charge? Should I not be in control? Isn’t that what it comes down to, being in control of your own life, steering the reel, at least as far as possible?
I’m just sitting here on a chair in a small room in a shared apartment typing away on my laptop, with pain in my neck and lower back, having eaten a pack of biscuits instead of dinner, thinking about when the appropriate time would be to go to sleep. Usually I say 9pm at the earliest, unless I’m super exhausted and can barely stay awake. But on a regular night like this, no way. Earliest bedtime is 9 o’clock.
I’m constantly checking my calendar, to see if I have any exciting plans I can look forward to, as if something special needs to happen every day for me to bother with life. Or maybe it’s because it makes me feel better, knowing that even though I’m just sitting here by my laptop all evening, watching Netflix, waiting for bedtime, that I’ll be doing something tomorrow, or the day after that.
Nick is in the Netherlands visiting his family, so I’ve been home “alone” (one other flatmate has been home, and yet out most of the time). My nights have consisted mainly of checking Facebook, e-mails, YouTube, repeat. Sometimes I’ve torn myself away from that vicious circle and watched some Netflix (currently watching Jane the Virgin season 4). Once or twice I’ve allowed myself to play The Sims, but I try to keep it to a minimum. I get so damn addicted and I can’t tear myself away from it, so I end up not eating and going to bed too late. On other nights… well, I just go to bed really early. I’ve been extremely tired these last 4-5 days, and have been sleeping too much.
Why does life have to be such a big deal? Why can’t it just be whatever it is?
I feel bad for sitting in front of the screen all day, because I know it will only make my pains worse. At work, that’s all I do, as well – sit at my desk and work on my computer. When I’m home, I should be stretching on my yoga mat and do neck exercises, or go to the gym, or go for a walk – not watch three more episodes of Jane the Virgin. I could be reading a book, or drawing. I feel a little better knowing that at least right now, I’m writing – on my laptop, yes, but writing nonetheless.
Jane has a writer’s block. I can relate. Sure, I can write a blog post now and then, when I’m inspired or when I’m finally able ot get something out that’s been eating away at me. But I’m not writing as in writing fiction. My evil little inner critic is always stopping me, saying I might as well not start anything because I won’t be able to finish it anyway. Then I think of Jane, and I think: well, she seems to be able to pull through it. So surely, I can too?
Except, my life isn’t a telenovela. And I’m not Jane. I’m Maria, a girl with a bipolar disorder, who’s been tossed around and around and is feeling dizzy and disoriented. I receive social benefits while on sick leave, trying to figure out how many work hours I can handle without getting sick. I’m practically living in a shoe box with 99% of my belongings in storage.
Nick keeps telling me that I’m doing a lot, that I’m improving, that it will get better. Of course, a part of me knows that he’s right. It just feels so far away, like an unreachable future, too good to be true, too good to hope for.
I wish I could glue everything back together. It’s all so scattered. I’m so scattered. Maria the Scatterbrain. Scatterscatterscatter.
It’s 8.17pm. Definitely not bedtime yet. So I’ll listen to a sad, sad song, because it’s stuck in my head. I’ll Never Love Again, from A Star Is Born. Maybe I’ll actually do some yoga exercises? At least a bit of stretching. (I say that every night.)
Don’t wanna give my heart away
To another stranger
Or let another day begin
Won’t even let the sunlight in
No I’ll never love –
I don’t wanna know this feeling
Unless it’s you and me
I don’t wanna waste a moment
oooooh
And I don’t wanna give somebody else
The better part of me
I would rather wait for you
oooohhh….
Okay. Gonna schedule this post to be published on another day, turn off my computer, and listen to some Gaga. And definitely stretch.
Maybe.
The Elephants in the Room 