so I’m sitting here knowing i have a lot of shit i have to do, watching the hours count down until the deadline.
it’s not unlike the way i spend the hours of my life until that final deadline
morbid thoughts are with me forever, guys. i can’t help it
so it occurs to me just now, though, that in order to get over the hump (the hump that is: a beginning), i actually just need to write down some of these thoughts that are chasing each other through my brain. in random order, then:
i wanted to make an instagram post with a cool photo (a fitting photo, one that is appropriately metaphorical but not too on-the-nose) and a caption something like: “over and over the battle repeats, between what is perfect and what is real.” something along those lines. but i have no such photo.
i have been listening to so. much. Roxy Music. lately. on the one hand, it’s because i’ve been reading a LOT of fic (escapism) and i find Roxy Music to be a fitting fic-reading soundtrack (well, a curated Roxy Music list drawn mostly from Avalon, Flesh and Blood, and Manifesto). but it’s deeper than that: i love Roxy Music. i was consciously, intensely listening to some of my favorite Roxy Music songs the other day (mostly from Roxy Music, For Your Pleasure, and Country Life) and i realized that Roxy Music, er, music, is me. and by that i mean it’s fucking dark, lustfully angsty. not sure if Roxy Music made me me or if i have reconstructed Roxy Music in my image (probably the truth is somewhere in the middle) but all i hear in their music is the dark longing for a fairy tale combined with a realization that the fairy tale is fiction culminating in an exultant acceptance of the real pleasures that life does have to offer: the fleeting comforts that we can take in other people. that we can give. then there’s there’s the meta similarity. basically i have been mildly concerned that my Spotify 2018 year-in-review is basically going to be 100% Roxy Music, which, when i thought of it, made me feel somewhat embarrassed (i should mention that Roxy already featured heavily on my 2017 list..and probably would have done so on all the previous years, too, if there had been a list for those years). and i recognized that this embarrassment springs not from the actual music, which (again) i honestly believe is genius, magnificent, honest, amazing, but from the fact that Roxy Music isn’t typically well-regarded (typically appreciated superficially and painted as silly or taking itself too seriously or too romantic or amateurish) or even well-known in the US outside of rock historians and people like me. and in that, it is also like me. because i actually think i’m fucking awesome, somewhere. like, the real me. the one that isn’t hampered completely by psychosis. i believe that everyone, not exempting myself, is fucking beautiful and amazing if they just fucking accept themselves. and i have, basically. i mean, i would, if i weren’t trapped by misery and circumstances. i want to be that fucking awesome me. i’m in there. but like Roxy Music, i am not appreciated for who i really am because who i really am is basically unknown. so basically i am a guilty pleasure that you’re not really guilty about because the only difference between earnest love for something and shameful love for something is in how other people view that thing.
Fucking Roxy Music, man
so i was upstairs just a few minutes ago trying to psyche myself up for the work i have to do, and i realized that my life currency is fucks. like, we all know the concept of “giving fucks,” and just like everyone else, i’ve used it for years. but then i realized that it’s actually the key to everything.
last week i was trying all week to push my fucking newsletter, and honestly it could have been so much easier, but the fact that i JUST. DID. NOT. CARE. was making everything exponentially harder. that wasn’t necessarily surprising…what was more striking was the vehemence with which i didn’t care. i got well beyond the point of not caring that i didn’t care. and i know that “having no interest” in the world, in hobbies and interests and the things you usually care about, is typical of depression: i have been here before, many times. as well, i know that it’s a vicious cycle, as not caring leads to bad consequences which leads to more depression which leads to more not caring, etc.
so i was upstairs, finding myself, again, just watching the time slip by, knowing that the situation is dire, knowing that if i don’t get this shit done i will fucking regret it. not caring. and it hit me, truly hit me in the really reals, that fucks are the one thing that keep me – or anyone – going from day to day. to get out of bed, you need to spend some fucks. to get ready to face other people. to do anything harder than simply breathing, requires fucks. and i think for normal people, fucks are a renewable resource. the act of living expends fucks, but it also replenishes them. but for me, and people like me, that last bit is just broken. everything costs fucks, but nothing renews them.
and so we get into the coping. the dependency. the addiction. the borrowing of fucks.
i borrow my fucks in a variety of ways. the most basic: i eat. chocolate, candy, ice cream, or whatever i’m craving. immediate, physical, pleasant feedback. something to feel. something good.
i escape into stories: either books, fic, or TV. for me specifically, fandom supplies me the doses of what i need. i borrow these fucks vicariously. i get the rush of caring, of worrying, of loving. it’s the opposite of actual life. where real life requires that you spend fucks in order to receive fucks, in stories i receive the fucks without having to spend any.
and then an odd one. or maybe not so odd. just odd that i’m seeing it in this framework, odd that i never have before: fantasy. i have always, always, always been a daydreamer. i have always known this about myself, and the guilt and shame crept up slowly over the years. not because there’s anything intrinsically wrong with daydreaming, but that i do it near constantly. i think the realization that i spend so much of my time wishing i were doing something else, wishing that i were someone else, hurts more than i would like to admit because the obvious conclusion to be drawn from that fact is that my actual life sucks balls. and the thing is i thought i had addressed this. like, at some point in my 20s i pulled up my metaphorical pants and gave myself The Talk: “this is your life. you’re not waiting for it to start; you’re in the middle of it. so fucking start acting as if you’re alive.” and i kinda thought it worked. and i dunno, maybe it did work for a time. but somewhere along the line i found myself back here. drawing my motivation out of thin air. borrowing my fucks from fantasy. gaining the will to keep living from the possibility of a different life. keep living, keep working, don’t give up, don’t give in, because….someday.
but goddammit lately everything is taking even more fucks. i’m operating in a fucks-inflated economy, and even my borrowed fucks aren’t enough to pay the bills.