So yesterday was my birthday, which marks the beginning of the 33rd year of my life. I am now 32.0027397260273973 years old.
I’ve spent the last few months agonizing over life, and how to handle things. As someone whose lived with a lot of inconsistency and uncertainty in his life, I get a lot of anxiety. I feel under-prepared and at the same time, that I haven’t done enough. Nothing is ever enough, and I freeze. I compare myself to others, I look at people I know who are doing better than me, I look at comic book professionals and where they started out. I look at myself and wonder if I’ll ever get to that point.
Writing for me comes naturally, but it’s mostly writing about me. About my mental state, how I feel, what I think. Expressing myself in this respect is a non-issue.
Expressing my creative side is terrifying. Like a Lovecraftian nightmare of epic proportions, like the dawning realization that we are little motes of dust compared to the rest of the universe.
I am terrified of failure, of disapproval mainly.
The one thing I’ve taken from my relationship with my now deceased father is this: nothing I did or could do would make him happy.
The problem with that line of thinking is this: I’m trying to win the approval of a man who is mentally ill, and by definition has no realistic hold on reality.
And sure, I realize this, I typed those words out didn’t I? I consciously understand…
Emotionally? I have such thick walls of negativity and self loathing up that it takes a huge effort to break through them. I mean a disproportionate effort.
In 6th grade, I wrote an essay about myself, I called myself free-spirited, and if you know me, that can be true of me at times.
My dad ripped me to shreds for saying that. I’m not allowed to be free spirited, not in this world. Everything is about working as hard as you can to scrape by.
I still resent him for making that statement, but I also have adopted that mentality. So really, he won.
It’s taken me all of this time, with him having been gone for 2 years now, to finally go “wait, this is MY life, no one is making choices for me, I don’t have to feel like I’m letting everyone down.”
Now it would be a perfect story narrative to tell you that that’s my attitude going forward, but it’s not. I’ve had this mentality before, and I’ve relapsed into my ball of self-hatred and black-heartedness time and time again.
They say you can’t love others until you love yourself, and I suppose I do love myself, but it’s hidden in this black hole of self-hatred and loathing that’s built up over 32 years of life.
I guess being in my 30s now, this death struggle between me and myself has started to wrap up, especially with my dad gone and my mom miles away. I can’t say I’m fine, but I’m trying to be, I’d LIKE to be. That’s a big step, because self-loathers tend to bask in their self-loathing.
So this is day 2 of Chapter 32, and I feel ok.
I would like to get back to writing fiction and working towards putting something out. I’m not ready to think about hiring and paying an artist, so I won’t. Coming from poverty means money is your most dominant concern, but I’m doing ok, not great, but ok. I’m going to hope things improve, and take it from there.