While I do my best to keep it (“it” being life, outlook, how I meet problems or stupid people) humorous, I find that for a moment, I have to stray into a sort of artsy, soul touching moment, of throwing up my guts onto this digital paper that you find here before you. I really hate the word “artsy” and almost anything it can be applied to, so I will do my best to keep it as brief as possible. Note: this does not mean that I hate art. There is a difference between art and artsy.
There’s a pretty large chance that you don’t know me personally, my dear reader, and that’s ok. In fact it’s probably better in the long run, and will make this catharsis easier. Through the course of my life, the path that I’ve carved into this earth has been long and quite winding, to say the least. I’ve done a boatload of messed up things. To myself, to others. Not obvious, sick shit like beating animals or hating another for their skin color or whom they love, or worse harming them. But there was a lot of hate. Shared hate between myself and a select few others who roam the planet still, hate we invested in each other. Oft, it was driven by total and complete insecurity and a seeking of kindred spirits. But at a certain point, it simply became something we did because we didn’t know where we would be without another human being as a punching bag. A gateway drug of sorts, even. I can’t speak for the others, so I will only claim my portion of the story. There was no limit to how much fucked-up I could deal out with an iron facade. The worse part is, behind that facade, there was a whole lot of nothing. No caring, no bother for the damage I was either physically or emotionally doing to another human being, and no care for what was being dealt to me. It’s not a point of pride, nor should it be, but it is a sort of “fact” about me.
When you walk a road like that, you become a magnet of sorts for the things that follow hollow, empty, raging anger. Hate and anger reads off of you like a heat signature, and lo! you find yourself surrounded by people who take cheap shots at themselves via drugs, an overabundance of booze, poor treatment of their spouses or significant others. Anger and the hate of the self manifests itself in some strange ways. I confess, I managed mine quite poorly then. I ran away from home. I binge drank. I beat the shit out of my boyfriend at the time, who in turn also did the same to me. We cheated on each other. We chased each other away, but would never let the other go. We cut ourselves and each other. He eventually ran down various drugs. I just drank more. People around me died, left and right. More often than I would like to admit, it was by their own hands or the vice they couldn’t kick. The people I kept company with were a whirling chaotic force of destruction. And we were decidedly on the path to our own destruction.
I would like to say that we were stupid, or brought up in bad homes. It’s not as though there weren’t some of us that fit the psychological profiles to a “T,” but most of us were (are) brilliant kids (because, in all honesty, that’s what most of us were at the time. Just. Kids.) who came from loving families. I would also like to blame another stereotypical villain, peer pressure, which again was involved, but was not a major cause for a lot of us. The other answer to my query is frequently that maybe, deep down, most of us were just plain defective souls. That we were meant to be screwed up and die young. Being the thinnest, most passive excuse ever, that just pisses me off. But moreover to the point, that really wasn’t it either. All I’ve figured out is it’s like we were voluntarily being morons and/or mad for the sake of being mad.
Part of me wants to delve into the philosophy of what it’s really like when you are angry all the time, but that really would detract from the whole “catharsis” part of my catharsis. Because that’s all throwing-up your guts is; your body trying to purge itself. I digress though. So, by the grace of what I can only imagine is my stubbornness and some help from the universe, I survived. Rather unscathed.
Or so I thought.
I had gone from horrible things -including but not limited to homelessness and abuse- to better things -a house and solidarity. I started college, ditched many of the bad people of my former existence, got into a better relationship. Then it all fell apart, for no reason. I blew school, hard. My (now ex) fiancé just up and quit on us one day, packed his things, and moved out. Left. Still to this day, no excuse. And at first I felt things. Guilt, sorrow, betrayal, hurt, frustration. But the whole time, I fought being angry about it all, past and present, just crashing down all at once into my life, which now resembles a crater. Turns out that may have been a mistake. I’m now fighting something much more different that is a thousand fold harder to fend off than anger.
“If only I had an enemy bigger than my apathy, I could have won.”
-Mumford & Sons “I Gave You All”
If you fast forward several years, you find me here. Right now, writing at 4am. In the effects that I have shoved off for literal years, apathy has added itself to my list of daily fights. And now, like the stone that Sisyphus pushes continually, my proverbial stone has rolled down. I find myself, in this moment at the bottom of an incline, weighted down by a boulder of baggage (I have a sever dislike for that word, but much to my chagrin, I must be honest with myself and call it what it is) but moreover, apathy. The worst part about not giving a shit is you just plain DON’T GIVE A SHIT.
I realize that obvious statement is obvious, but there’s just a certain feeling to apathy. Or rather, a lack there of. Here I am, trying to fix schooling. Wanting to hold on to the precious connections I have with very few people right now. Needing to get up the hill to the top, which gleams with promises of freedom from the dead weight, but then apathy raises it’s head. It tells me not to bother caring about others that I call friends. It tells me not to bother going out of my way to get up and go out on my days off, or even keep a sleep schedule. And I know, there are members of my audience at the moment that are rolling their eyes and thinking, well this just screams depression. And I would love for it to be something like a chemical imbalance. Take some pills, work out, talk to my doctor, get it fixed. Alas, it’s just not. I’ve already gone through those steps.
I can’t help but wonder if my apathy is my response to all of the shit I’ve done and been through in the last pile of years. As if I was so angry and not present that I just shoved it off and shoved it off; now that I’m considerably more active in my own life, I have no choice but to come face to face with everything that I didn’t feel for all of those years. Like becoming apathetic is a defense mechanism to keep from dealing with it for longer. Not particularly healthy, but in all honesty, I really don’t keep the most life prolonging practices for mind, body, or spirit. Here, I’ve used a bomb to fill a hole and uncovered all of this unresolved slag.
When I manage to push the apathy aside, it doesn’t feel pretty. At all. I sit about and wonder. My faith in the world or humanity or whatever, which was not super high to begin with, can wither to absolute zero just from trying to go get a small haul of things for my house. As mentioned earlier, I don’t sleep. If I do, it’s quite erratically. My small silver of hope seems to be that all of a sudden, I find things pissing me off more easily again. Politics, stupidity, public transport, hipsters, tools. I know, you’re thinking how does getting angry about something show any sign of progress. I’m leaning one of two ways.
First option, it doesn’t. I’m not making progress as a person, I’m just shoving it off for it to show up again, only this time it will be just about when I have kids, so I can ensure that they have a nice messed up childhood to further the cycle.
Second option, feeling anything means that, in small doses, I am resolving things. Maybe not in order, and probably not very quickly, but if the apathy is moving aside for feelings, ANY feelings, may-haps this is the mark of moving forward. Breaking down the stone.
For all I know, it could be a little bit of column A and a little bit of column B. Since I’m not a licensed professional, I’m quite sure I have no idea. I’d really like to hope it’s a lot more of the latter versus the former. I suppose only time will tell. I do have to say, for all of this forward momentum that I may or may not have, the one thing I noticed whilst draining my words onto this screen is that I don’t regret any of the really messed up things I’ve done. I may or may not be sorry, but that is for myself and those people, should our paths ever cross again, to establish.
Fuck, emotions are hard.