Yesterday was particularly unproductive, so today I forced myself out of bed at 9, only to feel drowsy and crawl back in at 9:30. I re-emerged at 10:30, messed around online… then started writing morning pages. I still haven’t made a regular habit. I looked at the 12-week plan I’d set for myself a week and a half ago and realized that nothing I’d planned to accomplish in the first week was done, which left all the following weeks looking impossible. So I set to writing in my morning pages about how I make plan after plan and action never follows.
I got distracted then, writing about how I ought to do this and that, jumped up and suddenly needed to tend to one thing, and then needed to find something to do with that thing, and couldn’t find it, and while searching came across an old journal.
Old journals, usually about 1/4 filled, are everywhere. In various baskets and boxes, on shelves and in the storage room and on and on. There’s no order or rhyme or reason to the archiving any more than there is to their writing. I start one, lose it, start another, find the first. Some have themes: gratitude – accomplishments (a big fat pretty collage of a notebook, with 6 pages filled) – weight, diet, fitness. Others are just randomly begun on random days, talking about the current state of affairs. Laying it out. Introducing my future self to the state of affairs “so here it is, June 30th, I am 29 1/2 years old today, I have six months.. ” “November 9th, 2005, Today is the 15 year anniversary of the accident” kind of things.
When I come across them I usually scan a few pages, because I can’t help myself. Although I don’t know what I’m expecting. It’s always the same thing.
What I find is that for every journal I’ve kept over the last 10 years or so, there are aspirations and affirmations and “write it down make it happen” sorts of pledges and visioning session and PLANS, with dates. By such and such a date this, by age __ this. Marriage, hot body, family, friends, a career, I need a career, a home I love, tidyness….
So it was with this journal, from 2003.
And another one I found down in the storage room not 30 minutes later, from 2005.
Complete with calendars, timelines, and sketches of myself as I’d like to be. All this mental effort and time and carefulness and detail. I always really believed that if you could just envision it, and describe it to yourself vividly, and make S.M.A.R.T. goals, and convince yourself of the TRUTH and virtue and attainability of the goal… then that would make a difference.
But evidently not. It’s 2008, now, nearly 2009… (this sounds exactly like the beginning of a new journal)
It’s heartbreaking. Heart BREAKING. To look at these pages… hundreds of them, maybe thousands… all saying the same thing, again and again and again. All these pages. And not one thing is different. Little things, sure, I live in a new place, Rob is FINALLY more or less out of my life (that was a plan I’d made starting 4 goddamn years ago “this fall I will do it.. before my birthday… why have i forgiven him again, valentine’s day is my deadline…” At least, at the very least that’s one thing that’s finally accomplished.
Still, NONE of the other life areas that I CONSTANTLY aspire to change has budged. Not a bit. My job has been the same half-assed part time paycheck to paycheck barely covering expenses and saving nothing job for 9 years! 9 YEARS. From 25 to 34. I didn’t grow or learn anything. I got by as an administrative assistant. I graduated from Harvard… and this was all I managed with the first half of my adult life, to be someone’s part-time work-from-home assistant, with no health insurance and no savings. I can’t even imagine what my father would have thought if he’d lived to see this.
It’s shameful is what it is. Shameful. And fucking wrong. And yet, I do this non-life, day after day, and every day is roughly the same, and I leave my apartment on average 2 or 3 times a week, on a good week… And have done so for 10 years. Just, walking in circles from the bedroom to the livingroom and the kitchen and back. Browsing the internet. Watching Tv. Feeling vaguely that I ought to get on the ball and do something already… maybe tidy up, read a book to an end, apply for some jobs, start working out! If I can just get in shape, things will change. I’ll start right away. Everything is going to change. i’m going to start WRITING AGAIN! Let me start the artist’s way, let me make a STRUCTURE! A structure is what I need… And then the journal stops and 200 blank pages flip by, representing what? Another blank year. And then another journal starts, and enthusiasm, and then blankness again. It’s almost as if all those blank pages are actually filled. It’s like one of those art installations with a blank canvas, or a play in which someone just clears their throat and then the curtain closes. My journals are like a Beckett play. fully representative of how life really is, and boring and disheartening as hell.
So, I’m in a goddamned funk right now. A major goddamn funk. It feels approximately like this:

What’s terrifying and terrible about this is that it reminds me so much of this case I learned about in psych 101, the case of H.M. He has had brain surgery to fix a seizure disorder, and afterwards has no ability to form new memories. He knows who he is and about his life before the brain-damaging event, but he can’t form new memories. He can’t remember what he did yesterday or even this morning, ever again. So for every morning for the rest of his life he writes down what he ate for breakfast, that he got the mail in, and for every afternoon for the rest of his life he notes down that he’s eaten lunch, and had a visit from his wife. He’s got THOUSANDS of these notes to self that are just the same scribbles over and over.
Is that me? Is that my life?
I don’t have brain damage, that I know of. But there’s something wrong with me. There’s got to be something wrong. And I don’t know what it is – whether it’s something wrong with my brain, or some psychological issue from my childhood. How is it possible that this is my life? All these empty pages piling up. ?
I want to feel hopeful. I want to believe that eventually I’ll find the key to change, the courage to start DOING something, instead of incessantly pondering and planning. But, all these journals are evidence that I’ve wanted to feel hopeful and I’ve given myself Rah Rah Rah sorts of pep-talks and reassurances a million times before.
I’ve been convinced of some brilliant new angle on change, some perfect new system, a method, an escape. A way out of this life and into that other life. A way of making the leap. And I’ve never followed through with any one of them. I’m sure they all could have worked, but instead of trying them out I keep, sort of, going under.
It’s like a long drowning. Moments of bright clarity and a big gasp of air and a lot of thrashing around and hope, journal journal journal! Followed by long dreamless confused blub-blub-blubbing, cursing at the phone when it rings and waiting for it to stop ringing, cuddling with the cats, rooting through the refrigerator and cabinets. And then another burst through the surface, more timelines and plans and conviction. And then silence again. I wonder if that is what life is? A long drowning that will end when I eventually stop thrashing back up and finally let go the idea of hope.
Is everyone’s life like this? Does it even matter? I mean, billions of people have walked the earth. Surely in the grand scheme most people don’t really matter. Maybe I could get comfortable with the fact that I don’t matter and that I’m just going to survive my life, the way most people have done since the beginning of people. Maybe I just get comfortable and relax and accept it. It’s short and it’s bearable, which is a lot better than many other lives. It’s completely bearable. nothing to complain about except that it’s like spending 60 or 70 years in a waiting room, reading the same ragged old copies of People and Redbook and Highlights for the thousandth time until finally you keel over.
What kind of a life is that? God this makes me mad. At least I could be having some fun while I’m here. Venture out the door. Go out into the hallway. See if there’s anyone to fall in love with or something. Anything at all to do…
So how do I change? How do I make anything be different? I ask this again, for the n+1th time.
Is my crumpled up little forgetable life, tucked away in this apartment among these dusty collections of self-help books and journals and messy dishes and laundry on the floor my life? Is this really what my existence is for? That’s it? It’s a joke! The sort of joke where people say, don’t joke about that, it’s not funny.
So! That’s where I’m at today. Hopefully this mood will pass. Of course it will. I’ll be cracking open a brand new journal and uncapping a spanking new pen any minute now!
Apologies for the long note. In case you are subscribed to me and it’s taking up space that could have been filled with something uplifting. Apologies for being a downer. No one likes a downer. I learned that in high school.
It’s okay. It’ll be okay. I’ve got my new moon calendar going… things are going to change this time. I’m different. I’ve learned from my mistakes. I know better how not to do it. Success only happens when you’re willing to fail one more time. I have to make myself willing, again, faithful and hopeful and willing to try.
Okay GODS! oh spirits! oh crinkly strings of teensy tiny vibrating nothingness that make being BE! HEY YOU! Something BIGGER THAN MYSELF! Down here. Help me. Help me find a way to matter, to myself, at least. I think that would be a good thing to aspire to, for starters.