Love life.
I feel like I am spending my life desperately wanting a man to commit to me. To love me unconditionally. No one ever taught me how to love myself. My mother showed me how to show others love. But that's nowhere near as useful as she hoped It would be.
My phone.
A window to the rest of the world. I pick it up, I flick past the handful of apps with each new screen. I'm searching. For nothing in particular. I am slow, there's no speed, but there is haste.
I flick past and back again. Nothing quite does it. There's nothing to click on, nothing able to catch my lack of attention.
I rely on my phone with a heaviness. A neediness. I'm agitated. I'm bored. I'm scared.
The clock shows close to midnight. I'm tired. But I just want something to do. I'm scared.
The day has been uneventful. Held nothing but my restlessness. And yet I'm eking it out. I'm consciously avoiding the looming night. I don't want to bear this. But there's a simmering fear of the end of it.
You'd think the knowledge of a new day, a fresh awakening would spur me. Or the nothingness of sleep. But something holds me back. Something takes me back to that screen. I flick through the screens. The dim glow from the TV and my phone now the only things emanating any light. I succumb.
A window to the rest of the world. I pick it up, I flick past the handful of apps with each new screen. I'm searching. For nothing in particular. I am slow, there's no speed, but there is haste.
I flick past and back again. Nothing quite does it
Clinical depression. A diagnosis I have received twice in my short life. GAD. General anxiety disorders. Once so far.
I am not sure if I will ever be convinced enough that those labels aptly convey my reality in its totality, to use them as a label on my sense of self.
Some days I feel those labels offer a microgram of relief from myself. I am what hundreds of thousands of other people are. Sometimes that knowledge can remind me of the world outside of my own experience. The one I am part of.
Some days can speed past, with a play of emotions fit for a year's worth of drama.
I feel a swelling of something, I start to fiddle with my hands, or touch my face in an anxious fashion. I notice it. I feel ashamed. I loose focus on whatever is in front of me. I feel a sense of hopelessness, of nothingness that just feels like I am broken inside.
Committing is usually something that requires effort. A decision to stick by something, to stick to it. I am committed to my desk chair most days, much rather a sun lounger, or a lush patch of grass. Alas, to give to my profession I have to commit to a chair. My bottom commits far more readily to a chair than my mind to my work.
Psychological concepts can take physical form.
Good interior design is based on feelings manifest into furniture, into seats, and chairs. Tables that hold conversations, doors that open into new rooms of opportunity, windows that frame a vast expansive view. Physical form can create psychological concepts.
Like all things physical, they have mass. Weight. A presence that you can touch, and feel.
Composition is defined as:
the nature of something's ingredients or constituents; the way in which a whole or mixture is made up.
a creative work, especially a poem or piece of music
Composure. The ability to pull oneself together. To control oneself. Be composed. Be controlled. Does that mean we do creative work on ourselves? Do we creatively pull ourselves together? Occasionally rearrange our ingredients to make up a new whole. Or do we create order? Control the way in which we are made up.
We create ourselves. We control ourselves.
Creation is a form of expression. Control is a form of suppression.
What composition do we compose? Which composure of our composition do we create?
I think I am scared to write. I am not sure what it is. I can write constructively and make lists, but it doesn’t match my internal yearning.
I feel fuzzy. I feel a swell of low mood. A low swell, shallow in my stomach.
On occasion when I try and write my mind goes this familiar fuzzy