At some point along the way, I discover that I’m terrible at being alone. I need someone to care for / spoil / love / give my existence meaning. Echoes of a trying childhood I’m just now sorting out. Otherwise, I’m constantly feeling empty instead of fulfilled.
Once a week I’m torn down so I can be rebuilt again, and some days I wonder: what of me will be left?
My entries used to be filled with so many details, moments, thoughts, and emotions. I used to believe everything I wrote was important. Not that I was ever a particularly good writer, only a person trying to be honest with himself, and that was the way for me to sort out the things in my head.
Now that need isn’t there anymore. Instead, I write to keep track of where I am, knowing that in time I’ll be wondering how far I’ve gone, and let my pictures fill in the blanks.
On my birthday, Lisa treated me to all-you-can-eat sushi at my favourite restaurant, and cleavage.
The new Leonard Cohen biography is out and Genevieve tells me it’s amazing, or at least a great deal more informative than the course we took last year at Ottawa U about the birth of the romantic troubadour. I used to be completely obsessed with this man, but now I can’t remember the last time I put on one of his albums for a straight listen through. I knew he was coming to Ottawa this Friday before tickets went on sale, but never bothered trying to get my hands on one, even though it used to be a goal of mine to see him perform live before the booze and sex took him like a true rockstar. He represents a part of my past I hardly relate to now, and it’s left me feeling like I need a new hero (who has some very big shoes to fill).
Little boy’s birthday parties involve a little less sexy and a lot more chaos.
I have so many friends with their paths set out for them over next 20-odd years cause of jobs and kids, yet just as many who’ve arrived at adulthood and are now wondering what’s next. After finding a career, buying a house, and getting married, they’re learning that these were goals they never wanted for themselves, only things people have always been telling them they should have. Now they’re wondering where to go from here, and how to find a true sense of fulfilment.
I went through the same crisis years ago, but feel no less uncertain about the future at this point. It’s only natural to go through constant cycles of struggle and resolution if we’re determined to grow and improve, not to mention the curves life tends to throw at us. I’m starting to view it with a sense of freedom instead of doubt.
I still have fond memories of the fall. It’s when the light is at it’s most neutral, not warmed by the summer sun or cooled by it’s reflection on the snow. The time of long showers, kitties being even more affectionate, and girls always finding the right spot to nestle under your neck.
On particularly bright, chilly days, with all the leaves a flat lemon-yellow, I can hardly take it all in.
We are on this planet to move our cats directly in the path of a sunbeam every 15 minutes.
The sunbeams form a celestial calendar across my floor, slowly creeping along as they threaten to warp the wood in my instruments, reminding me that I haven’t spent a winter in this room yet. I can only hope the memories will be better this time around.
These days, I still dream of a nylon-stringed beauty, with warm tones and crisp bass close to the saddle. I wonder what she’ll feel like under my fingers, mahogany or rosewood, satin or glossy. It’s a dream that never seems far away cause I know it’ll happen some day, so I try to cherish the anticipation.
I’ve been feeling particularly nostalgic. When the right song comes on, I’m taken to the time in my life when it was the only thing I played for a week straight. I used to write so much, but lately I hardly have anything to say it all. That’s why I’m addicted to the feeling of feeling, searching for inspiration, using my dreams to keep me alive.
In the last session, I explained to my therapist how I felt more responsible for and in control of my own happiness, and less dependent on others for a sense of identity or fulfilment (things I’d struggled with before). I also told him how I’ve been more vocal about my needs, to give my friends a chance to be involved in my life instead of always putting my feelings aside, and how I’m lucky that they’ve responded so positively to that. I’ve made some major life decisions that I believe will lead to positive changes, I’ve been productive, and I’m happy for right now instead of being deluded by a hopeful sense of what the future may hold1.
When I brought up idea that it may be the medication that’s been helping me so much, he said it’s good but not that good. Otherwise, he’d be popping pills every time he needed some sort of personal epiphany. Instead, it’s there as a way to help me think more clearly in certain circumstances, but it doesn’t do any thinking for me. This came as quite a relief, as I didn’t want to think that I’d be dependent on something for this sense of mental well-being.
My therapist’s initial goal was to teach me how to take better care of myself, due to the fact that I had insufficient coping mechanisms. Now, he believed I could handle that sufficiently, and after saying that I looked “delighted”, we agreed that I didn’t need to continue with our sessions anymore, something he’d never said to me before. I walked in and out of there feeling good. I like the fact that he respects me, cause he’s one of the few people who truly understand me.
On the other hand, I didn’t particularly care for my psychiatrist, an hoary man who didn’t seem to have a sense of empathy, whom I met for the first time a few weeks ago. As a sign that my experience with him was part of Canadian healthcare industry, he had no clue why I was there, when it was a doctor at the same clinic who had to write the referral for me. At the appointment, I was asked to fill out a questionnaire that included things like:
Sometimes he talked over me, as if he wasn’t interested in hearing what I had to say, although it’s hard to blame him for that, seeing as how his role is to monitor my medication instead of dealing with any kind of psychoanalysis. At the end of the appointment, he said I had a lot of options cause I had a lot of interests and intelligence. The only thing is, I don’t think I told him anything that would have given him that impression, so it all came out as flattery.
At least I won’t have to be seeing him for much longer, as I was told that I could stop my dosage, but he recommended that I continue for at least six months after I start feeling better (not after I start taking it), which means I can’t still can’t drink until some time around Christmas. But by then, hopefully I won’t have to.