Very low . Dug too deep into myself and now... well, the floodgates aren't open, but a steady trickle of bad feelings and memories now provide a background noise to my life, all the worse when I am on my own like this.
The constant pressure of 'You should be doing something more productive' when the less productive things are music and reading, relaxing and just trying to switch off. No, I should be working, producing, during all my awake hours. How can a mind keep going like this? It's not healthy, but even knowing it, I can't stop it.
Since finishing the last torso, I've produced nothing for university, I simply cannot work at home, and the pods are too isolating. I'm not allowed to book workshop time yet, and my peers are not in regularly. Even before the new lockdown, which means I suspect those students commuting from further afield will just not bother, three hours a week, spread across twenty students, means your chances of crossing paths with someone, much less being able to spend time with them, is small. This is not what I signed up for.
Memories. Of a brief period when I was at least... I don't even know if I was happy. Content? Or was I as unhappy as now, but memory lies to make me feel it was a slightly better time? I can't trust my mind. My work heads into using symbols of suicide more overtly. Sex and drugs and rock n roll and the incumbent death associated with it. Death and suicide that has touched my life this year, and I have not been allowed to close that door, and I do not resent the people responsible. They hurt me so much, what more was one more gut punch?
A lot, it seems. The selfishness and fear of others, and of what? Of me? What the hell can I do? What the hell did I do? Enough to justify all this?
And here and now I am lost and alone and afraid of the people who reach out. Because I am a terrible person who will do something so bad that I deserve all this.
And still I am not working. How does one channel all this hopelessness into art? With but a short divorce of time from my work earlier this year, it is all but meaningless to me, a collection of stuff that just means I passed time. Nothing has meaning.
Fuck.
I still miss her. I still love her, in that stupidly hurtful way. An instant connection, a feeling that this person gets me and makes me feel so right, even when as friends and having that severed is worse than any cold turkey and has lasted so much longer. Years of turmoil and pain and I can't let go of that one time someone got me. Or at least, enough to make me feel something other than loathing for myself.
