I was supposed to work on the book yesterday. Instead I went to the beach with the dogs. The sky was overcast, and I wore my boyfriend’s hoodie and my black leggings and tried to remind myself to be present in each moment, to not feel the heavy burden I’d placed upon my chest, to let the guilt of not writing wash away. After the beach, I fed the dogs burger patties in the back of my car and put vodka in my smoothie from Jamba Juice and dyed my hair. I didn't write at all.
I’ve had a few bad days lately. I can’t go into the nature of why. Most of the times I feel like I’m on an upward trajectory in my recovery but I know that I’m missing pieces of important understanding. Core fundamental concepts that I have yet to grasp. I can’t force gnosis. All I can do is continue to think, and read, and find flaws in my understanding of myself and other human beings, and be ever vigilant in how my thoughts and actions affect other people.
Someone who’d known me for a long time said that I’d changed a lot, that I was a nicer person. It seems simple to me. I don’t want the circumference of my being to hurt people unnecessarily anymore. That wasn’t the kind of person I wanted to be, so I stopped.
It gets more complicated when I’m stuck in the throes of flashbacks and pain. It only seems to happen when I’m close to someone, but I don’t feel like life is worth living constantly putting people at arms length out of fear.
Well, some improvement at least. It used to take me weeks to recover. Now, it’s usually only a few days. I used to sob and cry in complete and utter despair for days at a time, lost in a solipsistic hellhole that I didn’t have the will or strength to crawl out of. Now I try to pull myself together. I have felt so weak for so long, but there are threads inside of me knitting together, building something stronger piece by piece. I just hope it’s enough.
Strength is purposeful action. It’s built in small moments: In watching a movie by yourself and drinking a beer, taking the dogs to the beach, getting a coffee, writing a short story. And those small moments create big ones: determining what’s important to you, and finding your own happiness. Sometimes that means prioritizing enjoying life instead of writing a book, or taking some time off to take care of yourself.
I read Marcus Aurelius’s “Meditations” at the dog park the other day. I’d recommend it to anyone who wants to focus their purpose in life. It reminded me that life is short, that all I have is the present moment, and that we must cut through all the bullshit and do only what is necessary for our purpose. That all people are built for each other, and reason must guide us above everything else.
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Stock photo from Pixabay
Self portrait by me canon t51
Some of my other posts you may be interested in:
[Short Story] Letter to The Girl That Ate My Skin
[Flash Fiction] A Letter to My Imaginary Husband
What It's Like To Go From Ugly To Pretty
Notes For A Young Horror Writer [Writer's Journal]
[Short Story] Job Requirements For The Destroyer of Worlds
What Separates A Good Writer From An Excellent One?