Where I Went

Published November 23, 2013 by mckownt

I had hoped this writing project would be helpful, but I guess it is only helpful it I actually commit to doing it on a regular basis. I though about posting all kinds of things recently, my follow through sucked. I guess it still feels hideously self-indulgent to write what I am thinking like I matter. I need to get over that.  It’s a work in progress.

I don’t feel like me anymore, which sounds weird. If you aren’t ‘you’ then who are you, but I guess I just mean  I’ve been really disconnected in a way that isn’t me. Nothing interests me like it should, I don’t want to do anything I like doing; things I have always liked doing. I can’t remember the last time I was excited about anything or wanted anything. The Doctor Who 50th Anniversary episode is in theatres Monday and I am going, but I am still not excited. I am little bit but not like I should be, it’s more faked enthusiasm. I am emulating what I know I should be feeling instead of feeling it, which is cheating and I feel awful since I am going with other people who are really excited and I feel like I am going to ruin it for them.  I should be ecstatic, I love Doctor Who and I haven’t been to the movie theatre in like a year I have been so busy and work focused but I’ve got nothing.

I did it the other day too. There was this massive book sale that work had in the auditorium downstairs which should have made me the happiest person ever since I am a book junkie but it didn’t. I still went, wasted an hour looking at everything even bought ten books – biographies, cook book for my brother, short story collection on writing, spans the gamut really because I am like that – or used to be. But it wasn’t the same, not how it should be. I t wasn’t bad at all, it was a nice but it didn’t feel the same

Reading is one of the first things I ever remember doing,  even when I was little I was obsessed. I rivaled Matilda in the amount of books I brought home every week from the library. Finished all of them, and begged my dad to take me back by Wednesday. I have always wasted hours with books, even if I wasn’t reading them. I loved looking at them, the way they felt – different covers, different weights, how the pages turned – if they were the same size, older books had pages that didn’t line up, the way they smelled – like vanilla. I could waste days in bookstores and libraries, even the reference section. I remember building towers of books on the floor and sleeping in the middle of it on the floor so I could start reading again as soon as I woke up – and no I wasn’t 6 when I did that either, more like 16 – way too old to be so ridiculous but I did it anyway.

Maybe I am obsessing, I do that on occasion, or maybe reading is just the most tangible thing I can think of that I have lost in this weird disconnected funk of a depression I am in (I hate calling it that, but if I am being honest it is probably the most accurate description). I miss it but beyond that I miss the feeling that came with it, which I guess is what I am trying to get back to. There is this crazy giddy excitement that I associate with it. I could have the worst day in the world and it would all melt away when I started reading, like a magic talisman against every awful feeling I was feeling, and every awful thought I was having. Though on the upside I am not really feeling any of those either, the bad stuff, just a lot of nothing really. I am functioning in a state of apathy, have been for a while. I somehow managed to remove myself from my life.

Sometimes I wonder where it is I have gone. Like there are two of me and the me that is really me has just taken a vacation somewhere. If I look hard enough I might find her – Maybe she is traveling, or taking a writer’s vacation, or exploring Hungary, or soaking up the history of New England. Maybe I will run into her one of these days like you run into a stranger on the street and marvel at the coincidence of it all. I wonder if I am off somewhere having fun and will just suddenly come back some day filled with stories of all that missing time and what I really did instead of the nothing I am doing now.

It doesn’t work that way though.

So I am always wondering what it is she would do , this me that was really me before she disappeared. What would she think? How would she feel about something? What would she want to do? Sometimes I get an answer that sounds right and so that’s what I do, that it still feels like a cheap imitation but it’s better than nothing.  So I am copying what I think I should be doing, approximating my own reactions. I don’t particularly care for auto-piloting through my own life but I am not sure I now how to get out of it


The Search

Published October 8, 2013 by mckownt

Life is hard.No one tells you that though, not really. I don’t remember when or where I learned it exactly, but I did. I think everyone does at some point.  It will sound like whining when I say that mine was hard, and that I spent a lot of it being ludicrously unhappy and melancholy to the point that I was incredibly self-destructive. Still am some days. It’s easier to just sink into depression, there are always reasons to be unhappy. But from what I here, there is this other part of life. Another way of looking at it.  A friend of mine says that life is “crazy and its sad, and it’s happy and it’s wonderful, and it’s magnificent.” I have never seen it that way but I would like to. Maybe that’s what I am doing with this. Looking for the things that make life happy and wonderful and magnificent, because they have to be out there somewhere. I just haven’t learned how to see them. So that’s the goal I guess. Try and learn the hardest thing there is to learn: how to be happy. I am sure it will be more than a little crazy.