Past
What does my past say about me? How much of a vote should my past get in the decision making I undergo today?
I was a pretty sad kid. These days, I joke that I love the sad (I'm a Last Podcast listener, full disclosure). But sometimes I wonder where exactly that sadness came from. At first, I think it was constructed. I grew up an only child, in a small drive-by town with one stoplight. I was lonely. I turned to books and dreams of changing the world. I had one foot in the realm of desperately escaping from loneliness- through keeping busy, high achievement, and eagerly learning from others- and another foot in desperately wanting to be alone, forever. Being alone forever would mean that I could devote all my time to the thoughts and dreams inside my head. As I grew and changed, I tried to balance the two. Here I am, still balancing the two. On the one hand, I try to work like a demon to make free time for myself, to just do nothing. On the other hand, I don't always spend that time devoted to the dreams I hold close. Often enough, I spend it lodged in unpleasant memories, narratives of guilt and resentment, or just fucking around on my phone. And it's starting to eat at me. It's started to undermine my ability to invest in myself socially, professionally, and spiritually.
But a lot of times I see that sad as a search for purpose. And I'm just trying to keep this skin suit alive and actively engaging until I can find that something. It may not be out there. At least once a day I tell myself that I'm just corporate hack material (sorry I couldn't pass freshman econ, Dilbert-self). But fuck that. I have never once done what I was told without taking a swipe in the opposite direction. Conservation of mass, bureaucratic zombie style.
The other side of that sad is a feeling that I suck at being happy. When I get what I want, the thing that I thought would make me happy, I fuck it up. And that scares me. So. Much. I know it must be in my head- no one is really a bad seed, right? I don't know. I do know that now I have buyer's guilt about the "goals" I've aimed for. Because once they're in the bag, my personal touch makes them go sour. And the worst part is, I don't think I'm all that sorry about it. But that isn't how it should go, right? When you get something you want, you should work to make something even better. You should know the value of what you have. You should put a new spin on it. The only spins I have are rotten ones.
I've always wanted to believe in something, but I'm such a disloyal shit. Here's a story to start out with.
I once attended a summer camp. I requested enrollment on a lark, the same way I sign up for most things even today. I went with a friend who had enjoyed her time there the previous summer. We were bunked with four other girls and a counselor or two. I was about a year too old to be a camper, but it was my first time going so I was allowed to slip by. It was...unpleasant. It was a week of hot, sticky outdoor activities, questionable meals, and constant feelings of I-don't-know-f***ing anyone here. To top it off, I came home with a nice head full of lice that continues to haunt me today.
Never one to be discouraged, I decided to sign up for another summer, this time as a counselor. That next summer was a pretty sweet one. I came in tan, boyfriend-ed, and considerably better developed. I had my counselor stamp of approval and a few friends from the county over. I managed to make new friends and attract the attention of guys who'd seemed totally out of my league the year before, one in particular. And we were off.
Two summers of back and forth, with some talk throughout the year. One of us was always with someone else, and the time was never right. My senior year of high school, I decided to just make. it. happen. I dropped the guy I was with and I took the plunge. It was beautiful and also fucking excruciating. I loved someone for the first time. I was also so close to getting into the college situation that my mother had been prepping me for since conception. A full ride to somewhere private and fairly exclusive. It was so many fucking awesome things. But it was also crushing anxiety and guilt about making choices and being myself. And I couldn't do it, really. I checked all the boxes that I was asked to check. The parts that were up to me, I bombed. I dumped the guy over some local drama. I jumped into school fall semester and tried to reconnect with him. We were on and off but I was also getting into the world of frat parties and college curriculum. I had all these plates and damn, I smashed them. We had some super cool times. I tried all the drugs I'd been afraid of, hung around kids who were doing university in ways I'd never imagined. Went to cool concerts and ate good food. Had sex like I'd never had. Talked all night about dreams and fears for the future. Woke up next to someone, rolled over and watched them sleep as the sun rose. Really fucking loved. And also really fucking confused myself. Said ugly things. Felt nothing when I should've felt everything. Did everything I could to be unlovable and ungrateful. Did things I never spoke of to anyone and probably still won't.
I managed to paper over all the guys I slept with, all the classes I showed up to half-drunk, all the nights I couldn't remember, all the dates I flaked on. I lost the dream I had for my relationship and the person I would be once I got out of this town I felt trapped in. I didn't fit anywhere, and I was quickly wearing out my welcome with the people who loved me. And that summer it only got worse. The boy and I went our separate ways that spring, only to end up working at the selfsame summer camp of our meeting. And I was spending the weekends partying at a local college and fucking one of our supervisors. Of course, all of this got out. And it broke me open. Wide. Open. I got myself handed to me from several different directions. I cried every night for a year. I stopped playing music, reading, hoping. I couldn't look at myself. I hurt someone I loved. I had assumed my actions had no effect in this world. By proxy, my values and loyalties were disposable. I was a person, of little value, a person to be rescued or cajoled or intoxicated or fucked. And then all of a sudden I was here and I had no words for what the hell I had done. Or who I was or what was important to me. And the world expected answers that I didn't have. The world at least expected that I would show up to work on time and smile and say hello how are you. So I just focused on that one part because most days even that seemed like a Sisyphean task. I'd never been particularly plucky in my downtime but now that I was an actual asshole it wasn't endearing that my resting state was unimpressed bitch.
I stayed like that for awhile. Just trapped, frozen, trying to take orders and avoid fallout. Sometimes I think I never stopped being like that, I'm just quieter now. Because I don't want to do that to someone again. And of course, things changed. I held on to alcohol like a drowning man for a good two years. Managed to take down a few more social situations as a demonic blackout drunkard. Got a sweet eating disorder for a year. Pretty much wallowed. Then I met someone new, dove in headfirst, and went abroad. Kicked my purge habit, smoked as many cigarettes as I ever will, and came home. Fought tequila for six more months and then had to let that go to. Now not much is shaking. Now the outside stuff is gone, and its just I and me. Me is a cruel mistress, and she makes my head an ugly place to be. She makes it hard to leave my bed, which I often fail at. She makes it hard to show up on time or follow through on things. She casts down my ambitions and my personal projects, my visions for the future. She sure as fuck didn't want to write this shitty version of a shitty thing I did on a shitty blog that I made on a shitty lark. So fuck you, me. I never was too great at sticking to the plan.
What does my past say about me? How much of a vote should my past get in the decision making I undergo today?
I was a pretty sad kid. These days, I joke that I love the sad (I'm a Last Podcast listener, full disclosure). But sometimes I wonder where exactly that sadness came from. At first, I think it was constructed. I grew up an only child, in a small drive-by town with one stoplight. I was lonely. I turned to books and dreams of changing the world. I had one foot in the realm of desperately escaping from loneliness- through keeping busy, high achievement, and eagerly learning from others- and another foot in desperately wanting to be alone, forever. Being alone forever would mean that I could devote all my time to the thoughts and dreams inside my head. As I grew and changed, I tried to balance the two. Here I am, still balancing the two. On the one hand, I try to work like a demon to make free time for myself, to just do nothing. On the other hand, I don't always spend that time devoted to the dreams I hold close. Often enough, I spend it lodged in unpleasant memories, narratives of guilt and resentment, or just fucking around on my phone. And it's starting to eat at me. It's started to undermine my ability to invest in myself socially, professionally, and spiritually.
But a lot of times I see that sad as a search for purpose. And I'm just trying to keep this skin suit alive and actively engaging until I can find that something. It may not be out there. At least once a day I tell myself that I'm just corporate hack material (sorry I couldn't pass freshman econ, Dilbert-self). But fuck that. I have never once done what I was told without taking a swipe in the opposite direction. Conservation of mass, bureaucratic zombie style.
The other side of that sad is a feeling that I suck at being happy. When I get what I want, the thing that I thought would make me happy, I fuck it up. And that scares me. So. Much. I know it must be in my head- no one is really a bad seed, right? I don't know. I do know that now I have buyer's guilt about the "goals" I've aimed for. Because once they're in the bag, my personal touch makes them go sour. And the worst part is, I don't think I'm all that sorry about it. But that isn't how it should go, right? When you get something you want, you should work to make something even better. You should know the value of what you have. You should put a new spin on it. The only spins I have are rotten ones.
I've always wanted to believe in something, but I'm such a disloyal shit. Here's a story to start out with.
I once attended a summer camp. I requested enrollment on a lark, the same way I sign up for most things even today. I went with a friend who had enjoyed her time there the previous summer. We were bunked with four other girls and a counselor or two. I was about a year too old to be a camper, but it was my first time going so I was allowed to slip by. It was...unpleasant. It was a week of hot, sticky outdoor activities, questionable meals, and constant feelings of I-don't-know-f***ing anyone here. To top it off, I came home with a nice head full of lice that continues to haunt me today.
Never one to be discouraged, I decided to sign up for another summer, this time as a counselor. That next summer was a pretty sweet one. I came in tan, boyfriend-ed, and considerably better developed. I had my counselor stamp of approval and a few friends from the county over. I managed to make new friends and attract the attention of guys who'd seemed totally out of my league the year before, one in particular. And we were off.
Two summers of back and forth, with some talk throughout the year. One of us was always with someone else, and the time was never right. My senior year of high school, I decided to just make. it. happen. I dropped the guy I was with and I took the plunge. It was beautiful and also fucking excruciating. I loved someone for the first time. I was also so close to getting into the college situation that my mother had been prepping me for since conception. A full ride to somewhere private and fairly exclusive. It was so many fucking awesome things. But it was also crushing anxiety and guilt about making choices and being myself. And I couldn't do it, really. I checked all the boxes that I was asked to check. The parts that were up to me, I bombed. I dumped the guy over some local drama. I jumped into school fall semester and tried to reconnect with him. We were on and off but I was also getting into the world of frat parties and college curriculum. I had all these plates and damn, I smashed them. We had some super cool times. I tried all the drugs I'd been afraid of, hung around kids who were doing university in ways I'd never imagined. Went to cool concerts and ate good food. Had sex like I'd never had. Talked all night about dreams and fears for the future. Woke up next to someone, rolled over and watched them sleep as the sun rose. Really fucking loved. And also really fucking confused myself. Said ugly things. Felt nothing when I should've felt everything. Did everything I could to be unlovable and ungrateful. Did things I never spoke of to anyone and probably still won't.
I managed to paper over all the guys I slept with, all the classes I showed up to half-drunk, all the nights I couldn't remember, all the dates I flaked on. I lost the dream I had for my relationship and the person I would be once I got out of this town I felt trapped in. I didn't fit anywhere, and I was quickly wearing out my welcome with the people who loved me. And that summer it only got worse. The boy and I went our separate ways that spring, only to end up working at the selfsame summer camp of our meeting. And I was spending the weekends partying at a local college and fucking one of our supervisors. Of course, all of this got out. And it broke me open. Wide. Open. I got myself handed to me from several different directions. I cried every night for a year. I stopped playing music, reading, hoping. I couldn't look at myself. I hurt someone I loved. I had assumed my actions had no effect in this world. By proxy, my values and loyalties were disposable. I was a person, of little value, a person to be rescued or cajoled or intoxicated or fucked. And then all of a sudden I was here and I had no words for what the hell I had done. Or who I was or what was important to me. And the world expected answers that I didn't have. The world at least expected that I would show up to work on time and smile and say hello how are you. So I just focused on that one part because most days even that seemed like a Sisyphean task. I'd never been particularly plucky in my downtime but now that I was an actual asshole it wasn't endearing that my resting state was unimpressed bitch.
I stayed like that for awhile. Just trapped, frozen, trying to take orders and avoid fallout. Sometimes I think I never stopped being like that, I'm just quieter now. Because I don't want to do that to someone again. And of course, things changed. I held on to alcohol like a drowning man for a good two years. Managed to take down a few more social situations as a demonic blackout drunkard. Got a sweet eating disorder for a year. Pretty much wallowed. Then I met someone new, dove in headfirst, and went abroad. Kicked my purge habit, smoked as many cigarettes as I ever will, and came home. Fought tequila for six more months and then had to let that go to. Now not much is shaking. Now the outside stuff is gone, and its just I and me. Me is a cruel mistress, and she makes my head an ugly place to be. She makes it hard to leave my bed, which I often fail at. She makes it hard to show up on time or follow through on things. She casts down my ambitions and my personal projects, my visions for the future. She sure as fuck didn't want to write this shitty version of a shitty thing I did on a shitty blog that I made on a shitty lark. So fuck you, me. I never was too great at sticking to the plan.
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