I grew up to the sound of rumbling. Thunder, car engines, growling in the backs of throats. I grew up in deserts and plains. Backyards filled with sand and patchy grass, scraped knees and dying trees, that when I look back at objectively now weren’t half as gnarled as I remember them being. They weren’t the fingers of withered fairy tale witches hands reaching to pull at hair and the edges of my clothes as I imagined.
A lot of people glorify their childhoods, remember things much nicer than they actually were. I tend to go in the opposite direction. Maybe its just always been my resting mentality to be slightly melancholic, maybe I’m just a pessimist delighting in being let down once again by myself. A pity party thats actually a party. Grayscale streamers and glass glitter parades of ‘I Was Right’.
Its comfortable though. I can’t deny that. I’ve become used to this non-stop disappointment that seems to be me.
I was prompted today by the writings of Montaigne to do a closer introspection on myself again. I haven’t done one in a while, well I have, but they’ve been more moments in time rather than a whole overview of who I perceive myself to be at 22.
If I count it out in pros and cons, like a panel of deeds, accomplishments, and possessions I come out okay. I have a place to sleep, University is going well, I have two Cert IV’s tucked beneath my belt and a solid work history, plus a reliable source of mediocre income. Internally I always feel lacking. I feel shame constantly.
It seems everything I do, every decision I make, every action I take or do not take, I find a reason for why I am not good enough. They are always good solid reasons. I am ashamed of what I do and who I am. Do you know how constantly exhausting it is to always trying to be better? To always be looking for a better way, to work smarter not harder, to be better and stronger and more beautiful than the day before. To just feel better? I spend hours at night contemplating everything I’ve done wrong and come up with scenarios that tomorrow, tomorrow I shall enact and receive a different outcome. They say that a symptom of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and thinking you will get a different outcome. I think the reason people fall into insanity is doing things different over and over again and still receiving the same outcome. Groundhog day as a perpetual state of emotional being. I want to scratch out the eyes of people who give suggestions and opinions. I’ve been there, done that, nothing you can and could ever do could even begin to encompass the paths I’ve attempted. But then again I’ve never been the most persistent of people. If I had to introduce myself as character I would say this:
She had medium length brown hair, noticeably lighter at the tips from a time too lazy to dye back from previous bleaching. Thin, bitten fingers dig sharply into a tobacco pouch feeling for the last bits at the end of a pay week, trembling slightly if you look close enough, feel fast enough, before she straightens out and laughs. It doesn’t reach her eyes. Her hands move when she talks, slight jerks and starts before gracefully falling into a rhythm that mesmerises you for a second, only a second. She talks like the world won’t catch up, like if she says the words fast enough they won’t mean anything. The feeling encompasses her whole being, hopefully she won’t mean anything, you won’t mean anything at the end of the day and she expects to be forgotten, she expects to be the last one standing and the last one remembered. Too loud and too brash to be entirely truthful, yet solemnly spoken as if these will be the last words she will ever speak. They might be.
This isn’t what I expected. I shall try again.