I can do anything!

Seriously, I can do anything! This is the sort of mind frame I’m often in by the time I should be going to bed. I’ve usually managed to achieve a small victory, finishing a few small tasks, or even something a little more weighty, if it was a particularly saucy day. I’ll be making plans for the next day. I’ll be organising. I’ll be getting ready to attack a bigger task. “I’m going to work on money tasks,” I say to myself. “I’m going to go back to uni,” I might say another night.

I’m telling myself that 4-5pm will be exercise time, and that I won’t drink an entire bottle of wine (or two) just because. I feel like life is finally under control, that I can actually do it, that after 3 long years in the wilderness I have finally reached the fucking light at the end of the fucking tunnel.

comic - man enjoying sunrise

And then the next morning I wake up like the above. Except not at all like that. All that progress from the day before is gone. During the night I’ve ended up at some earlier backup point. I wake up feeling like a pile of shit. That I can’t do anything. That my life is fucked. That everything is pointless, even if I did momentarily feel like doing something.

comic man in prison looking at fadded sunrise

At some point I drag myself out of bed. On the best days I’ll manage to shower, breakfast, and even put on clothes. On the worst days I’ll just sit in my stank and drink coffee (which is admittedly pretty fucking glorious). Little by little I try to get back to where I was the night before. Some days I get no where.

After a while I get to wondering why I’m still here. That surely it’s only a matter of time before I do something rash. And why not? Life is without meaning, all suffering is futile, and any joy is transient. Why not get blasted and go play by the cliffs, or get to working on a serious heroin addiction? Why not?Against It all, I’m still here.

I’m still here because there is that little something that says, I am a unique fucking snowflake! I can do this, damn it! Life may only have whatever fleeting value and point I bestow upon it, but I’m going to do it my way.

So, while every day isn’t waking up to the heavens beaming warmth, love, and joy down upon me, I can work my hardest to live how I want to live, and achieve all I can.

Put on your pants and join me.

Anorexia: They Bring It On Themselves

The Young Turks YouTube channel cops a lot of trolling, ignorance and generally inflammatory rhetoric, but seeing the levels of aggressive ignorance on a recent video was truly appalling. Ignorance, I can deal with, but when when it’s accompanied by this degree of hostility, it fills me with a bitter, despairing rage. So, what was the video about? Well, for this years Halloween, a company released a costume dress titled “Anna Rexia”.

Anna Rexia
Anna Rexia

Why the name? Dunno. Seems like someone decided to be puny, but headed in a distasteful direction. The panel was split on whether the company had gone too far. I think the name is offensive, and given the way it’s marked I can understand why there is noise on the subject.

Of course, no one is expecting a rational debate on a platform like YouTube. But I found it deeply disturbing to witness the tirade of statments like, “they bring it on themselves”, “stupid people deserve to die”, “anorexia is a made up first world disease”, etc, etc. And this goes on and on, and some of these “discussions” become brutal, with anorexia survivors (who had the courage to identify as such in the ruthless forum), we told they were stupid, vain, self-obsessed, attention seeking, and so on.

One can only assume that most, if not all of these people’s whole logical process must be something like, “oh, I don’t understand or know anything about anorexia or mental health diseases, therefore all these things are made up, and/or self-created.”

Where does this faith in one’s own ability to know all come from? What makes them believe they know more than the psychologists, and neuroscientists that research these issues? What makes people, in general, think they should even voice an opinion, let alone be highly outspoken on any given subject, when  they are running on nothing more than their own assumptions, and the assumptions of similarly uninformed types.

I think we need to discuss, as a society, what is the value of an opinion, and when one should bother to utter their opinion. Sure, we all have that right to free speech, but if we don’t know squat about the given topic then there is a good chance our opinion is worth shit all, and can be more harmful than constructive. I know, let’s teach critical thinking in schools from the very start. Surely these sorts of comments and unfounded opinions are beneath us, as a species.

Over It

So, I thought that whole, “I woke up one day and realised I was over him/her/it”, was a bunch of malarkey, but that’s a fairly accurate account of how I feel right now. I’m not sure when exactly it happened but the roller coaster seems to be petering out (really truly), and has been for some time. Generally, I like roller coasters but that one got old damn quick. Psychic emo rides are the sort of thing only drama queens and masochists can derive any joy from.

The booze and slobbing about period has lapsed back into my native state of booze-and-slobbing-about-lite, which has always been a more productive space. I’ve never managed to attain the dubious title of “drunken master” in any of my pursuits. A little extra lubrication rarely hurts, though that is indeed a very slippery slope that can easily result in pizza and zom-coms (or whatever) for the ill-disciplined and vulnerable.

[Carpe diem bro]

The Grand Reboot 2.0

heavily manipulated photograph of sunset with office furniture in the foreground
The view from my office/bedroom

Turn back ye now! Ahead lies a most self-indulgent post of woe (and hope). Everything is about me. So, run or stay. Your choice! Another year has spun on. My hearing is getting worse, my eyes are deteriorating and my hair is in a slow retreat. Those things I can live with but this break-up weight seriously needs to go. I can still see my toes. Last year was one arsehole of a year, but thanks to some good friends and family, self-medication and therapy I’m still here.

Things are looking a little better and new possibilities beckon. This isn’t to say everything was great when I look back further. The five years I spent with miss X and my second born had many ups and downs, but in many respects, they were the best so far. But when looking all the way back to my first days at high school and every day since, a general lack of direction, self-doubt and existential aliments has resulted in a jumbled, turbulent and unorthodox life to date. Not to mention conflicting and contradictory. So, some good and some bad. Some extraordinarily super periods and some hellish.

I know I’m not alone here. Most people experience at least some of what I’ve been through, and there are plenty who go through much worse. There are far too many that don’t made it through to the other side of their worst days, either because the bad ones keep on rolling on, or because suicide becomes preferable. I got lucky. I didn’t end up dead or a vegetable.

My greatest regrets are letting anxiety get the better of me all to often, living so far away from my eldest, and allowing my relationship with miss X to implode.

And this is where it has all lead to. At 30 years of age I am yet again trying to make a “fresh” start. It was 5 years ago, almost to the day, that I first came to Canberra on the grand reboot, and once again I’m heading back to school at a new institution. Unlike previous attempts I’m feeling more secure in my field of study and have a clearer idea of where I’m going. The future has always been a severe case of writers block. Any clarity is very welcome.

Starting next week (Feb 2nd) I embark on a two year diploma of 3D Animation & VFX for Film at the Academy of Interactive Entertainment. I almost forgot what optimism felt like. That too is also very welcome. The biggest obstacle to overcome in making it through this course will be to settle for “close enough is good enough”. In past studies an unrelenting propensity for perfectionism has lead me to burnout time and again. Of course, perfection is a myth, or at best, a fleeting moment destroyed by it’s mere observation. Good is good enough. Repeat. Practice. Good is good enough.

And then there are feels like these

Mostly pleasant day with showers of sad, a mild case of witch. Showers strengthen in late afternoon to full-blown despair.

It has been more than nine months since the split, and here I am, still wanting a dank cave to fade away in. Don’t get me wrong, internet ghosts, I’ve had some good times in these nine months, but here I am driving around in circles. Have I made any progress on being a better, stronger person, more capable of living life the way I want? Maybe… Maybe not.

I’ve spent some solid time working on my artistic skills, but more time slumped in bed watching old TV shows. If nothing else, at least I can say I’ve lived my life as a model of depression. Thankfully there isn’t anyone handing out awards for such achievements.

Oh, I just came back from a holiday. I spent it in the lands of my youth with my boys and family. That was nice. That was when it all started building up again. Perhaps this is an indication that the nightly indulgence of a red or three had more of an impact on the medication than I previously thought? Or maybe I’m on the wrong meds, they do nothing and I just lucked out, snagging one of those “one in a thousand year” type breakups.

Then again… Come on, boy! Suck it up! Join the army and harden the fuck up already. Life isn’t some bleeding-heart liberal picnic. Life’s a war. It’s command and conquer and you’re either someone else’s grunt or you are the fucking commander in chief.

Reality bites.