You tell me I always think I’m washed up when I say I used to be a better writer because these days I’ve sacrificed my think-pieces for diary entries. It mainly happened because writing is a compulsion, so I always have a reserve of personal writings to post to make up part of a consistent portfolio, which is my main goal. You say maybe I had been academically worn out from studying the discipline of reading and writing all day at university, and I think you’re probably right. There’s a storm right now and a draught is, for once, blowing into my room through the window; I’m working towards a deadline and spitting out crass, but true, statements quickly in between typing sentences. I’m not really thinking about what I’m saying, this is usually when the best stuff comes up.
You say I swore I was a better writer at 14 when I was 16, then 16 when I was 18, and now 18 when I’m 19. I tactfully don’t point out that my process appears to have sped up twofold with that last one. My own feelings and ideas feel ephemeral to me more than they do to other people, and I’m so convinced I’m satisfied with myself that I don’t see how harsh I am. Again with the secrets only I am not privy to. But I’m right about ditching the intellect for my feelings (which I tend to feel are nothing special).
Recently I thought I was dying. It was a two month health scare and I’m grateful it was a false alarm but I’m now left with the thoughts that only health-related fear can elicit. The second I was told there might be bad news I suddenly felt like this was it. Everything made sense, and a lifetimes worth of low grade paranoia and the general ever-descending feeling of doom finally had reason. I felt like the worst part of me was validated and that it was right; I had known all along I was ill-fated and damned. A strange sense of relief found me in the doctor’s office, followed by a pseudo-spiritual awareness of my body and being. The relief was that of having outrun the doom, of having known about it before the thing itself, and I realise now that that is ultimately what I aim to do in every sector of my life. The mental treadmill I’m on never ever ends and it is trying to keep me ahead so that I’m never blindsided by the cyclone, dumbfounded by a backhanded compliment, or startled by a knife in my back. I feel like I can’t afford to be sidetracked by my emotions on a day-to-day basis, so I’ve been preparing to die my whole life.
It’s a disgusting feeling to get bad news and for your first thought to be that you were right all along. And while everyone was concerned, I was telling myself ‘I told you so’. My obsession with morbid things manifested in the deep sadness (or the heavy weight?) that has always followed me, or resided within me. It’s sort of a chicken-and-egg situation between the morbid fixations and the deep sadness- I’m not sure I can remember which came first. That should tell you something about how long they’ve both been around. In short, I have somewhat of a tortured temperament, but I prefer to call it artistic.
You tell me how it’s crazy that I think I’m washed up because I’m only just getting into gear. I’m still processing that you said the thing about being washed up in the first place, rinsing the phrase for what it might mean. For some reason that phrase really got to me, maybe it resonated? Or was I offended? That reaction is generally the biggest sign that you are insecure about something, so I guess the answer is both.
‘Washed up’ makes me think of Elvis impersonators and Elliott Smith wannabes who sing for their supper in suburban American parking lots. The phrase is distinctly male to me, for some reason, and it makes me think of everyone's father’s dreams. Not necessarily my father, just fathers in general. It makes me think of giving up before you’ve even started, or trying for too long past your prime and then just accepting the cash tips and inconsequential delusions of stardom you are afforded in a small town. Or worse, it makes me think of mid-size success: never really getting anywhere, but sort of almost being somewhere, clinging onto your better-known associates and desperately trying to be young again. Botox and B-listers. All of it makes me freeze. Maybe at the core of this is a fear of failure and a big, swelling ego.
I’ve been reflecting on the conversation, trying to lose the question in the labyrinth of my mind, and when I inevitably fail, I try to find something of note to report back. The best that I’ve found is this: I live in a constant cycle of shedding skin that makes it easy for me to look back at recent versions of myself with disdain. I’m never the same version of myself for too long, and yet I never change. In Didion’s words, ‘the themes are always the same, a return to innocence, the mysteries of blood, an itch for the transcendental.’ The older I get, the slower I dislike myself. Compassion runs through my palm lines and my pen is flowing with ink, and I care more about that than I do anything else.