If I wanted to have a real conversation with someone, where would I start? Would it matter that I can’t yet have completely honest conversations with myself?
I don’t like getting down on myself because it’s becoming trendy. If I say I am bad at something that is supposed to make it ok?
With such ease I can craft a story. Good luck being a thought without a serious manipulation attached to it. Don’t think your thoughts are manipulative? You’re manipulating yourself right now. I’m talking to me. Not you so please don’t be defensive. It’s just a writing style because of dyslexia and a solid bout of ADHD.
These are the kinds of things that give me anxiety. I would hate to be a psychologist. All the theory. Theory makes it hard to do anything. Just sit there and think and be crippled by the thinking because it’s all so bad. Everything is stacked against us. From the moment we are born we are dying. I’m not being clever like some kind of poet, it’s true. And hell if I want to sit here and think about that kind of stuff. But hell if I can stop myself because at least now I can put the brakes on and lean on a friend’s shoulder and say, “Hey pal, life is just total shit isn’t it?” And that will have somehow been a productive use of time and he’ll nod his head like, “Yeah, it’s true.” And both of us will feel connected to a hollowness that we don’t want but we take it because it’s better than nothing and to hell with having nothing at all.
If I were to record everything that came out of my mouth in a day and listen to it at night before bed I would go to sleep hating myself 90% of the time. There would be the nuggets though, when I said something honest or not over thought and I’d fist pump it and give myself a quick nod of approval in the mirror, “You rule, bro.” And that would be that. But the rest would be shit. There’s no need to talk that much. It’s fine if I hate myself a little bit for knowing this. It’s the scene from I Heart Huckabees when Jude Law finally hears himself telling that same tuna fish sandwich story over and over, it’s mortifying. It’s mortifying to exactly see how we exist in the world because we ain’t putting on our best that’s for damn sure. When I say I hate myself I don’t mean it too seriously, I am still going to sleep and waking up and doing my work and enjoying my life for the most part. I have a good life, that’s not the issue. It’s just that I’m only partially doing it right. I’d listen to my words every night and remind myself in the morning to talk less. Just talk less and then I’d hate myself less. It’s a simple equation. Perhaps after a few months it might change to talk less = love myself more. I don’t want to jump the gun and talk love but it seems that it’s the inevitable successor to hate should someone decide they want to let go of the excuses and taste the pie for all it’s supposed to be worth.