IF

I’ve been asking myself a lot of questions lately and I still don’t have a question for most of them. Of the three most important of those questions however, one I do have an answer for. Do I hate myself? Why do I hate myself? When did I begin to hate myself? I’m sure it’s easy to see which of these are answered. I hate myself, sometimes, and I have no idea why. 

I have felt like the least important person in the world lately. And who’s to say that isn't me? I have doubts. I feel inadequate. I’m being shaved down into something that is simply not me and I'm genuinely unhappy with the results. A lot of it has to do with the pressure I’m putting on myself and the impending changes I’m poised to make at the end of the school year. Uncertainty and responsibility have left me anxious, in ways that I wasn’t before. If I want to figure out why, I need to sit with the other questions and find answers. 

PROBABLY

At the same time, my life is in a lot better condition than it was a few months ago. A lot of my stressors have been resolved. My health is in better condition. Objectively, I’m getting everything I once wanted. I probably hate myself for not being happy with these things. For being ungrateful and for still wanting more. Or for lacking the imagination to dream of a life that could actually make me happy. 

For four days, I didn’t post anything on Twitter or Instagram (except music links). I’m sure no one noticed, not that it was a cry for help. I just needed to sit with my thoughts and not share them. Even the funny ones or happy ones or intelligent ones. My thoughts being my own was healing in a way. I figured out a few things and found a few more questions. 

SZA posting a man on her spam account had me hurt, keep that to yourself. 

I have been really aware of my body after I got a disparaging remark about it and I think my hurt feelings are more about me than what they had to say. 

When the hell did people start treating Bryson Tiller like he’s ‘84 Michael Jackson? 

Do other people hate me? 

I have a good recipe for candied yams. 

Writing has always been akin to worship for me, being asked to write things not of my own design has compromised a piece of my happiness. 

I need to stop punishing myself. 

The Lakers are going to be a good team this season, fuck the noise. 

I need to find a healthier way to communicate with myself. 

MAYBE

I need to navigate better ways to be down/sad. I need to be sad in order to be happy, I realized that years ago. But I can control how my sadness manifests and how it imposes itself on me. I feel like I am not myself but I have a general misunderstanding of what is being lost. How am I betraying myself? Am I not a son anymore, an uncle, a brother, a writer, or a friend? Am I still these things in isolation? Where is my vindication supposed to come from? 

No matter how my day goes, recently, at the end of the day when I’m thinking back on everything, I don’t want to be alive. Not as myself. Not in this life I created. Sharing this has been an isolating experience, even more than just thinking about it. But at other times, nothing is better than being me and listening to music or reading music and just feeling the sun on my face. I’m not sure what’s worse: sharing your thoughts and no one cares about them or suffering in silence. Somehow I’m doing both. 

The last stanza of Stevie Smith’s famous poem, “Not Waving but Drowning” drones along in my head all the time. 

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always   

(Still the dead one lay moaning)   

I was much too far out all my life   

And not waving but drowning.

Waving or drowning? Maybe there isn't a difference between the two. 

🦋

published October 21, 2022