One of the people I met up with during my week at home made an observation that struck me as odd. She said that when she looked in my eyes she saw happiness, so I must not be doing too badly. Now this speaks of 1 of two possibilities: either I’ve become so withdrawn that I’ve put on a convincing happy mask that I didn’t even know about or even just a few days away from Maryland and work did more wonders for me than I thought. Or she was projecting and hopeful and so saw what she wanted to see. But I’d rather believe one of the first two. One thing was for sure though: happy I am not.
It seems to me that the higher your expectation out of life, the bigger the disappointment. Because what they don’t tell you is that disappointment is inevitable. Only a fraction, it seems to me, actually get out of life what they set out to. And I’m not so sure I’m part of that select few anymore.
In fact I’m pretty sure this is full throttle depression. I’m finding myself apathetic toward everything. In about 3 weeks or so I won’t be doing any kind of dancing anymore. And instead of feeling incredibly sad I feel relieved. Relieved that soon I won’t have to get up out of this chair to do anything. I won’t be kidding myself with the idea that I’m an Irish dancer. I won’t be throwing hundreds of dollars away on ballroom that, in the end, can’t live up to my expectations. Relieved that I won’t be letting anyone else down anymore.
I signed up to the MICA art market so that I could sell some of my work. Now I’m annoyed with the idea that I have to prepare and follow up in order to actually be there and participate, much less be successful. There’s a film festival that I wanted to enter Denim into, but I don’t even remember when the deadline is.
The point is I’m starting to see it all as pointless. Why try anymore when I’ve been trying for 2 years and nothing has come of it? I’ve worked so hard to juggle work and health and trying to break into becoming a professional artist that I’ve not only burnt my candle at both ends, it’s become a black hole in the process.
The once burning ambition I had at the forefront of all my motives is now a tiny, weak voice in the back of my head that I can hear only on days I feel the least dismal.
I’m so tired of waiting. So tired by the fact that I can’t change the fact that I have to wait.
When does my life begin? Why is this purgatory necessary?
I don’t belong anywhere anymore. If home is where the heart is, I’m currently homeless. Home is currently where most of my stuff is. I don’t belong in Maryland. If I stayed here I’d just continue shriveling up into nothing of a person. The biggest desire to come back was to be able to sleep in my own bed. I don’t really feel like I belong in Hyde Park anymore either. Where I used to live has become intolerable to be in for even more than a few hours, and while my friends were happy to see me, I didn’t feel like it really made any impression on them that I was there. Like if I hadn’t come at all it wouldn’t’ve made a difference. I actually spent the evening of Thanksgiving alone.
Now I understand why people pair off into couples and lose touch with everybody else. In a world where actually caring becomes such a chore, once you find someone that’s actually willing to make an effort for YOUR best interests and wants for YOUR every happiness, I can see where everything and everyone else can pale in comparison. I can see how in that tiny world one can actually relax and be comfortable. Everything else just calls for yet another reason to stress out.
I’m sad that I’ve become this way. I’m sad that, since my primary purpose in this life is to be used, no one has noticed.
