Absence

For the next week or so I'm not going to be at home. I won't have access to the internet so my streak of consecutive daily posts must end here.

I think the break will do me some good. Hopefully I can use the time to clear my head and figure out how I'm going to spend the rest of the year. Once I get home I'll start posting again, at a rate of one post per day. All the best to all those who read this.

Angst

Today, all day, I was tremendously anxious. I still am. I don't know why - I've got no more to worry about today than I had yesterday. It's not particularly uncommon for me to feel that way but not to the degree I felt it today. Most of the time I'm aware of a low-level anxiety which has pretty much just become the background noise in my brain but it can get worse. When it's bad it can be difficult to manage as it often results in physical symptoms, leaving me feeling pretty awful.

After months of relatively little in the way of major anxiety, today I had a taste of the sort of nervous nausea I used to experience regularly. It wasn't serious, just an upset stomach and a kind of heightened nervous perception of things but I don't really understand what precipitated it. It did, however, remind me of a particularly difficult time in my life when I was so anxious that I felt physically sick almost every day.

It was during my last semester of university and I just wanted the year to be over so I could graduate and move on with my life. The degree I was doing wasn't a difficult one but as I entered each new semester I began to feel more anxious and less confident about my ability to complete the coursework. I wouldn't let myself quit because, at that point in my life, I felt I needed to get a university degree; I didn't think I'd be able to respect myself if I didn't finish the course. Incidentally, getting through it and graduating didn't really make me feel any better about myself, but that's a story for another time.

I'd done reasonably well in my first year; not exceptional, but I hadn't been very happy and that got in the way of me doing as well as I possibly could have. The beginning of my second year was tough. It was probably the lowest point in my life up to that time. I became increasingly depressed and I was struggling to find meaning in my life. I also was seriously doubting my abilities academically; I began to see myself as an idiot incapable of grasping even the simplest concepts, unable to complete basic tasks. I worried constantly about failing and, poisoned by my negativity, became extremely unproductive. I still attended all my classes, completed all my work and also worked a part-time job but often I felt like I was about to fall apart. I didn't want to get out of bed in the morning. Everything was a struggle. Despite that, I don't think I ever let on to people how I really felt; I don't think any of my classmates or colleagues knew how low I was. I am pretty good at holding myself together when I need to and managed to go about my life like everything was fine.

It was at this time I started seeing a psychologist and I began taking anti-depressants. I was also prescribed an anti-anxiety drug but I don't think I took it more than a couple of times. None of these things really made me feel any better: I'd leave my sessions with the psychologist feeling awful and the anti-depressants didn't seem to lift my mood at all. I made it through the semester and, although I received the worst grades I'd ever got throughout my entire schooling life, I still passed all my subjects reasonably comfortably. That didn't make me feel any better - I still felt like a failure.

By the time I was in my final semester my anxiety had become even worse. I couldn't concentrate and I spent just about every waking hour making myself sick with worry. Even though I had made it that far and not failed a class I still doubted my ability to make it over the finish line. In fact, inversely proportional to my level of depression and anxiety, my grades had been improving every semester since the beginning of my second year. Even though I was now doing quite well, I still didn't believe in myself. Before exams I talked myself into believing that I would fail, irrespective of how much I had studied. The way my brain was working defied logic. I could believe I would fail an exam, worry about failing until I was physically sick, yet take the exam and score ninety percent and still not flinch from my position that I was incompetent. That I was actually doing well didn't matter at all; I put all my success down to good luck and told myself it wasn't a reflection of my abilities.

I don't know how much longer I could have continued on that way. I think, eventually, I would have reached a point where I did myself some damage, physical or emotional. I didn't ever get to find out because I managed to hold myself together long enough to graduate. I had stopped taking the anti-depressants a short time before then since I was experiencing no real benefit from them - not even any sort of placebo effect - but maybe it wasn't my brain chemistry that was the problem. Maybe it was just a pattern of negative thinking. Or maybe it was my brain chemistry and I just wasn't taking a high enough dose. Instead of trying to get to the root of the problem I swept it to one side.

For a short time I was just glad to have completed my studies and didn't experience much in the way of anxiety. I started working full-time and that became my life. Once the novelty of having graduated university wore off (it really doesn't mean much) I started trying to eliminate feeling anxious by avoiding situations likely to result in me feeling that way. That meant keeping more and more to myself. And so, a few years on, I find myself in my current situation, with no real responsibility and with little to worry about. From here I could, at least in theory, choose to do anything at all with my life. Despite that, feel like I have no options. I am still depressed - probably as much or more than I was a few years ago - and I'm becoming increasingly unjustifiably anxious. I suppose I was never going to be successful at running away from myself.

Habit

Every night, sometime around midnight, I instinctively sit down at the computer to write a blog post. Even when I don't have much to say. Like tonight.

I've been thinking a lot about what happened yesterday afternoon, a period of about fifteen seconds in which I managed to make myself feel more foolish than I have in quite some time. I feel stupid for saying what I said but I don't regret it. I think that in some perverse way I'm enjoying feeling empty and hopeless. It's not like I'm taking pleasure in being miserable or anything but feeling this way is simultaneously uncomfortable and yet comfortably familiar.

If I try to think about the future, it all seems very murky. Ten years from now or even just ten days, I can't see where I'll be. I don't even know where I want to be. I feel so disconnected - it's almost like I'm just observing life while others around me are living it.

Resignation

I feel like an idiot. I finally asked out the girl who works at the place I play tennis. She said no. That pretty much sucks. But it wasn't just that she turned me down, it was how she did it. We'd been making a little small talk the last couple of times I'd been there - nothing big, just a few words - but today we struck up a little more of a conversation. She remembered our names without us having to remind her what name the booking was under so I thought that might be a good sign that I was in with a shot.

I waited until after we'd finished playing tennis and then, when returning the key to the court, decided to throw caution to the wind and just do it. I made a throwaway remark about her having worked a long day and then, in a moment that was very un-me, asked her if she had a boyfriend. She replied that she didn't. Since I'd already gone that far, I then asked her if she'd possibly like to go out with me sometime. She hesitated, then laughed at me and said 'no'. I think I detected a little condescension in that no.

Beforehand, I'd figured that the worst that could happen was that she'd say no. I'd even thought that, even if she wasn't interested, she'd at least be flattered that someone had asked her out. What I hadn't counted on was her laughing it off the way she did, as if indicating that I was stupid to have even bothered asking. I think she may have been a little insulted that a guy like me (read into that whatever you like) thought he was in her league. But it's done now and I can't take it back.

I know it's not the end of the world. It's just one moment that didn't go the way I wanted it to. That doesn't mean it doesn't hurt. And not just because in this one instance I put myself out there and got knocked back, but because I really feel like this is how things are always going to go for me. I don't think I deserve better. What bothers me is that I've just given up. I've resigned myself to the idea that I'm not going to get what I want because I'm not worthy of it.

There are plenty of guys out there with girlfriends. I saw some statistics in the newspaper a few days ago stating that fifty-nine percent of people over the age of fifteen are either married or in a de facto relationship. A lot of guys who are less than attractive, guys who are unintelligent, guys who abuse alcohol and drugs, guys who cheat on their partners, can find girlfriends so what is that saying about me? Am I less likeable than the ugliest, stupidest, alcoholic, unfaithful scumbag out there? It feels like it.

And I'm tired of hearing the same platitudes about how one day things will turn around for me and I'll find someone and I'll be so happy... blah blah blah. I know it's advice usually offered with the best of intentions by friends who really do care but it just sounds empty and patronising. Especially if it's coming from someone who has just turned you down when you've asked them out: "You're a really great guy and you'll make someone really happy one day," leaving out the most important part, which is implied: "just so long as that someone isn't me". Sometimes it seems like people only say it because it's the kind thing to do. No-one's ever going to tell you that you're destined for a life of loneliness, even if that's what they really think.

Shorts

I spent tonight watching the sixteen films selected as finalists for this year's Tropfest (a short-film festival). A DVD of these films came free in the weekend paper. Overall, I didn't think the films were particularly good. To be fair, there were a few I quite liked - a couple of them were pretty good - but most of them were disappointing. The festival gets thousands of entries every year and if these were the top sixteen films this year it doesn't say much for the rest of the entries received.

Short films are strange beasts. They can be an acquired taste. Often, they're student films, which generally means they're a little on the experimental side. There's nothing wrong with experimental films but they can be very unsatisfying to watch if you're expecting a classical narrative. You know, a story. If they're done well, experimental films can be quite powerful and thought-provoking but quite often student experimental short films are incoherent, meaningless, and seem almost randomly slapped together in the absence of a real idea or story.

It's not easy to make a short film. A good one at least. Packing a story into ten minutes or less is tricky. I'm by no means an expert but I have some experience in this field having majored in film at university. With each film I saw tonight and disliked, I began to wonder more and more about why I've never bothered to make any of the short films I've written over the years. It's funny, because as hard as I am on myself and everything I do, I've actually written a couple of short film scripts I'm quite happy with. I've also written several others that have potential but the two I'm happy with are, if I may say so myself, pretty good. I don't think I could really improve them much. So why have I both scripts in a drawer for more than five years? What's stopping me from shooting them?

Manners

I saw something on TV last week that, despite the fact that it was mindless, daytime-TV filler garbage, irritated me to no end. One of the morning shows invited some lady on to discuss etiquette and table manners, etc. After spending quite some time talking about the precise angle at which your knife and fork should be placed (and the orientation of each implement in terms of upside down or right way up) on your plate when you have finished your meal, she went on to discuss more important things. Like how the correct reply to the greeting "How do you do?" is not "Fine thank you," but instead is "How do you do?" or "Nice to meet you". She explained that "How do you do?" actually means "Nice to meet you" and that it was inappropriate to reply as if you had been asked "How are you?"

First of all, I think manners are incredibly important; they are a way of conveying respect to people and I'm really big on that. What irritated me about this particular 'lesson' was that everything seemed entirely irrelevant to modern society. Does it matter if you eat your main course with a salad fork? Or if you reply "I'm fine thank you," when someone greets you with "How do you do?" When was the last time anyone even used that phrase when not addressing the Queen? I mean, when people greet you with "How are you?" or "How you going?" they're not actually asking how you are, it's just a greeting people use instead of just saying "hello". That someone would be so pedantic about such trivial things infuriated me (yes, I know it's a little hypocritical to say that given how trivial many of my musings are but I'm still going to say it). Why should this sort of information be widely distributed when the vast majority of people are ignorant of far more important issues?

Perhaps I was just having a bad day.

Scent

Today I decided to tidy up a little and I tried to rationalise some of the junk I've accumulated over the last few years. It started out as an attempt to make room for my growing DVD collection but once I got going I thought I might as well keep going. I can't take credit for a job well done just yet because I'm only about half-way there; there's a whole lot of stuff on the floor just waiting for me to find a place to store it or throw it away. That'll be the hard part but I'll worry about that tomorrow.

While sorting through some of my toiletries - I have far more cologne and deodorant than I ever realised - I discovered a near-empty can of a deodorant I haven't worn for about seven years. I sprayed a little on myself and ever since then I've been thinking a lot about who I was and what I was doing all those years ago. I know, like I needed something to stimulate me to ponder my past any more than I already do.

The scent of something can cause it to be so vividly remembered that it almost feels like you're living that part of your life over again. And not necessarily in a specific way. For me, the smell of something familiar or meaningful not only brings back specific and concrete memories of particular events and people but also more general, atmospheric-type memories of eras in my life; ethereal and non-specific feelings indefinably encapsulating years of emotions into a single moment of recollection. This particular fragrance instantly rewound the last seven or so years of my life and reminded me of who I was back then. Back then, like now, I didn't have much faith in myself but I kept myself busy and productive at work and university. I was depressed and had no goals, lofty or otherwise, but within me there was sense that, in time, I would overcome all that and I would eventually find my place in the world. Back then, despite my somewhat negative outlook, I didn't have such a closed view of who I was. Things still seemed possible. It seemed possible that I could do great things and that one day maybe I would.

The biggest difference between me then and now is that I have lost that sense of possibility. I can't pinpoint exactly when it happened - although, ever so often I experience it again, albeit fleetingly - but I've definitely lost it. At the time I don't think I even knew I had it but in retrospect I realise that I did. What happened in those intervening seven years?

I'm not sitting here trying to say that I've wasted my whole life; I know it's only seven years. Seven years isn't that long a time, except if it represents more than a quarter of your life thus far. Looking at it that way puts things in a different light. If seven years, more than a quarter of my life, has passed me by and the only thing I have to show for it is the loss of hope and possibility, where does that leave me? I haven't outgrown my flawed, pessimistic outlook - I've grown into it. And I've lost that little bit of me I didn't want to lose: the part of me that believed, despite all my anxieties, that I would be okay; the part of me that believed that I might one day be happy.

Maybe this is what I need right now. A reminder that every moment I spend dwelling in the past is a moment of my future wasted. I need to use the time while I've still got it. Otherwise, seven years from now I'll find myself doing the same thing I'm doing now only I'll be even further away from what I want.