Today is the first day of the rest of your life
wrote this at 3am and hit publish, no second read. I think i'm just trying to get something off my chest
The death of my father split my life into BC and AD. Who I was before the age of 20 was entirely different from who I am now. I don’t have much contact with my BC friends, and the ones I do have we’re not close. Most friends I have today are from AD, and so there’s this weird disconnect between who I know I am (and have been for most of my 25-year-old life) and who my social circle knows, because I started writing in my AD phase. The public as well: I think most people know me as a writer1, which is the persona I took on in AD. I like being a writer. I love writing precisely because I don’t have to be me on the page. That’s probably why I write so differently from how I speak—my friends know this, people who have met me from online know this. I write well, but i speak like a child, especially if i have to explain something I’m obsessed with, actually.
I don’t know why I’m putting this online, but there’s a kind of weight I need to get off my chest because I feel like a phony. I feel like an actual imposter. Last night, I sang karaoke by myself with some acoustic playlist on YouTube, and Creep by Radiohead came up, which is one of my favorite songs at karaoke—to sing and to listen to other people sing—but last night, I suddenly started crying at the lines, “I’m a creep, I’m a weirdo, what the hell am I doing here? I don’t belong here”. This has been happening more and more recently: the tears have a will of their own, this sounds absolutely insane to someone who has never experienced this but imagine doing something mundane: checking your texts, opening an app, walking to the bathroom, having a conversation, and all of a sudden, with no trigger, you just begin to cry uncontrollably. And the sadness literally has a weight, like it’s a physical object. For me, sadness feels like a small bag of marbles (or something substantial) being slowly released into the rib cage underneath the collarbones, and the weight of it presses down on top of the lungs and heart. I don’t like not being sober (lucky me), so I don’t do anything about it. I don’t like altering how i feel with substances because i’d rather get used to the discomfort than feel it come back later. I have an immensely high pain tolerance, i won’t get into this. I’d rather rawdog emotions.
I’m not suicidal, but I weirdly understand on the intellectual level of someone who wants to end their life. At least, for me, it’s something like “I don’t want to be here” and not “I want to die”. Kind of life your social battery draining and Irish exiting a party you realize you suddenly stayed too long at. (please get help if this is you<3 you are loved and we need you).
I’m not polygamous and don’t have any desire for group sex, but there’s an oceanic kind of love I crave badly, I desire God very deeply. I take my faith as seriously as i think i can. I recently tweeted and wrote, “I wish I could die before my friends so I don’t have to attend any of their funerals.” When this isn’t a joke, this is actually pretty selfish. idk you tell me. I have a very deep fear of God as well, I love sylvia plath a lot for this reason because she really understands my heart in her poem “Daddy”. But Plath isn’t my role model. anyone who has killed themselves is not my role model.
I was a weird teenager as well, Icant’ get into that righ tnow. but I think i turned out surprisingly well-adjusted for every unexpected thing that happened to me. people say you can just do things and that the world is malleable (guilty) but there is actually one facet of reality that you absolutely can not change, and it’s that life is unfair. it simply is that way, there is no changing it. play the cards you’re dealt.
I have something against modern psychology, something I softly fought against throughout my undergrad in psychology: something like “you shouldn’t pathologize variance…there’s something wrong with everyone.” I think the DSM is kinda whack. I think it’s arbitrary to categorize someone as being “depressed” because they have 4 out of 8 or whatever symptoms for more than six months. So, I don’t really care about labels and diagnoses. I’m not fine…but is anyone really fine? everyone’s been depressed at one point or another.
Confession: so, I’ve tried therapy, but my mindset going into each of them was to treat it like a game to see if I can see through what the therapist is doing. I wanted to see who “wins”: can i manipulate them? how well can they read me? And the second i feel like i can see through their “tricks”, or, whatever technique they’re using on me, i lose interest. Now you know my toxic trait. i can easily clock abnormal proclivities like being obsessive-compulsive, lowkey chronically anxious, cuticle picking, nail biting, gum chewing, other small body-language habits that tell me a lot about you.
anyway, back to the main stream of consciousness here: I guess what I’m trying to say is that i’m finding that whatever coping mechanism i’ve been using for the past five years might not be working anymore, and that something is breaking—in a good way, because that’s how rebirths happen. I’m excited to become someone new. I don’t like bringing up grief or loss because i’m afraid it makes me slip into some kind of victimhood mentality if i say it too many times. but i have no problem milking it if i need to for some kind of personal essay on an application. But it’s probably not “victimhood” mentality to want to heal, maybe healing isn’t all that woo/snake oil/esoteric and fake, maybe something about “the body keeps the score” is true. i never finished that book i think i still have the book somehwere.
but yea, thanks for reading -
might start writing more like this, so:
I started writing on twitter in 2022, with an anonymous account (profile pic was just a black background). people thought I was a man, I accidentally fell into the manosphere and wanted to climb out. most of my followers are still men, but that might just be twitter bias. i connected with a smart girl (hey laura!) who said that i have some pretty good takes and should at least make it known that i’m not a bot so that people can contact me if they want. So, i started revealing more and more about myself until I thought whatever people are gonna find out who i am anyway/i don’t mind this “public intellectual” persona, so i started writing as my real name with real photos of my real life. Rest is history.
You just explained a ton of what I've been trying to figure out about you. I've been a professional screenwriter for my career, and your skill with words, your ability to illuminate things that usually rest just below the level of conscious awareness is beyond anyone I've ever worked with. I'm a more "literate" screenwriter, write semi-poetically when it's appropriate for the project, but at more than twice your age can't say my "purple prose" lives up to yours. So I wondered what drives you to dive below the surface most people don't dare penetrate. And now I know. It's pain. And while it's different for each Writer who explores truths others won't, that's the one commonality we all share. My heart bleeds to know this about you, but... welcome to the club, Sherry. You have a rare gift, and that gift will be your salvation, if you let it. Most people suffer in silence because they lack the depth of expression you possess. But for those like you, whose words give shape and form to what would otherwise go nameless, it can be cathartic. Your own private exorcism. I caught glimpses of that in "I Want To Be Beautiful" and "Just Do What You Want" and "I Want A Boyfriend." All things you already are or richly deserve, by the way, but will have difficulty finding anyone who fully comprehends about you. Rare insight is a double-edged sword; those who have it can't imagine life without it. Yet, you find yourself occupying a space few can share. It's a calling, but not without its loneliness. Jane Austen's Georgian/Regency-period dialogue was the Rembrandt of her literary genre, but she mostly wrote about people overcoming the false impediments of unequal Class and Wealth that dictated life in her day. She had nothing on you; you also chafe at artificial restraints, but you're too young and vibrant to become the recluse she was. Let words be your release. Your path to freedom. Should you choose to write stories that metaphorically explore what for you remains unresolved, it will open doors you didn't even know were closed. This is what Writers do; confront their own fears and failings, one page at a time. And I didn't need to read more than a few of your words to recognize a true Writer, reaching for something she herself had yet to fully apprehend.
I read “bird by bird” recently and loved the what Anne Lamont wrote about the writing and how nourishing it is for you. It’s a nice habit to have and it’s refreshing to be reminded of it when I read it, as well as this. It’s a good thing to be writing. And i cant remember know how or when i subscribed here but i’m glad you found something in writing, and that you reminded me of how nice it is, instead of those empty urges/vices you listed. Sorry for your loss, may you find and cultivate that love and faith you speak about.