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More Frustration

March 16, 2022


I’ve been dealing with several degrees of frustration similar to what I’d felt in my previous vent essay, though this time the hope provided seems rather null. It’s no longer “it will get better,” instead “it will end soon.” Frankly I don’t have any excuse to not be doing anything with myself. I need to just push myself and do it. That requires an amount of strength I’m somehow unable to put forth anymore. Included in that is the existential dread of my lightness. How I’m cosmically flimsy and unable to cope with my own shortcomings. It’s not even funny. I’m given the tools to be successful: I’m intelligent, talented, charismatic, attractive, a born leader. Yet, for some reason, I just don’t apply myself. I like to think it’s some sort of attention disorder - in fact, I’d love to think that. If I could just shift the blame to something out of my control, that would make my life plenty satisfactory.

I suppose the etymology of my lack of passion can be traced back to my move from California. Obliterated. I kept up my grades my first semester. Had a life that I could grow from. Friends I cared for, etc. Obviously, it wasn’t all perfect. I was a wanker with very little maturity or understanding and I’d be lying if I said that moving around a lot hasn’t broadened my worldview. I’m no Sophie -- I actually tend to understand (or recognize my lack of understanding) concerning social issues because of my experiences. But dammit, if I could I would trade that all for the stability I possessed. I wanted to leave then, sure. The grass is always greener, etc. But in retrospect, it doesn’t seem worth it. I lost all drive and passion for school, barely kept afloat, and to this day I desperately cling onto the memories of my 14-year-old friends. Marco. Brooke. This isn’t fair. This is pathetic.

When I moved I got my first C. When the angle of my downward spiral started to get less steep, boom - pandemic. And my reaction to it is easy to attest to being normal. The perfect excuse for an extravert to lose all drive. Though, as my hedonism took on new forms, I can’t say I ever used it as anything more than an excuse. Other people moved past it -- or through it. They stayed focused on the books. That should’ve been me. Instead, I dedicated myself to my film which was not a bad thing. However, where I faltered was using my working on the project as an excuse to avoid schoolwork. Unacceptable. The pattern is not slowing down. “This is the way I am” is another excuse. “The way I’ll always be” is even worse. Unacceptable.

So in order to move out of my depression I try to cling to the idea that I’ve been improving, but that improvement isn’t a linear slope. I suppose that’s true. It’s a process that isn’t necessarily logarithmic. Though, knowing myself, I fear I may turn that idea into another excuse. I should be better.

I need to just hunker down and do the things I know I need to, just like many others such as I who are plenty capable. I have time, money, and support. Everything is at my feet, I just don’t. Disappointing.

I’m unsure what people like Skye and Grace see in me. I do fear it's the idea of me -- though to a lesser extent than my attempted former lovers. I’m serviceable on paper. A filmmaker, writer, philosopher. Good taste, plenty handsome (based off of what others have said, not just my own narcissism I promise), charming. The last film I made I’m too embarrassed to release. Passing Out Pieces has needed a second draft for nearly a month. I haven’t done a stitch of reading since the first 23 pages of Modern Love (which isn’t really a book, even less so philosophy). I haven’t found a song to attach myself to since November. November. When was that? Last week?

Even by the standards of worth that I established when I confused my social rejection with venerability, I’ve failed. When I don’t even see value in myself, how could I possibly understand when others do? Part of me wants to keep going. Fight Club: hit bottom. It’s not a weekend retreat or a seminar. It’s losing everything -- even hope. Losing all hope is freedom.

Oh no, not me defining my worth as a living, breathing, cog in the machine by a film worshiped by those who don’t get its satirical undertones. Attach myself to entertainment because that’s all I can. Even now I can’t write without listening to music I discovered over a year ago just to stomp down that horrible feeling of temporal unease. Those thoughts that drag my stomach further to the depths of what I can only describe as Hell. After all, if a shared orgasm with a lover is hedonistic Heaven, this is surely the opposite. I feel like I’m filling up a trash bin and keep pushing into it to make more room. What happens when the bin is truly full? Well, take out the trash.

That’s where it’s too easy. But I suppose it’s just the bare minimum of being able to get through it. Get through it. No excuse! I don’t have anything wrong with me. No inflicted suffering to make any of this excusable. Get through it. Please, worse men than me have fared better. Get through it. Just look for tomorrow.

About a year ago I asked my Dad if he ever experienced psychological self-torture. Purposefully imagining has-beens and will-nots in order to keep a constant feeling of despair without any real reason as to why. He still does. It doesn’t go away. My father’s resolution: dedicate yourself to others. If nothing else, help others. Keep busy. Don’t give yourself enough time to continue self-torture. Okay, I’ll give that a shot.


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