The new school year is off and running by now and all the associated events have followed suit. I’ve already got a running tally of how many days are left until the end of the school year. I’m on the tail-end of my first of many colds and other plagues because teenagers are filthy. Tonight, especially, my coworkers and I are eagerly awaiting news about whether school will be canceled due to the tropical storm that snuck up on us today. Additionally, I feel so overwhelmed that nearly everything not pertaining to my immediate survival has been designated as low priority.
Unfortunately, feelings of accomplishment are particularly important to me, so when all I normally want to do is come home and crawl into bed like Grandpa Fuckin’ Joe, it doesn’t necessarily do wonders for my mental health. I woke up early on Saturday to do laundry and that was an absolutely momentous occasion. Of course, I spent the rest of the day being particularly useless, so it was pretty much a wash. If previous school years are anything to go by, I’ll likely continue being infectious human waste until at least mid-October. I can only assume that binge-eating Halloween candy alone in my room (in my underwear) is chicken soup for my melancholic soul.
In the grand scheme of things, however, this school year has been the least painful by far. I’ve made it my personal goal to cultivate Bodhisattva-level patience and not let myself be dragged down by either the kids I teach or the powers that be. As I said while discussing this with some former students recently, “I’ll be goddamned if I’m going to die of a heart attack because of some asshole teenagers.” I’m going to become so Zen that it hurts. So Stoic that it literally becomes offensive to others. Aggressive inner peace.
The irony here is that, for all the forgiveness and understanding that I’m learning to give to frustrating students or annoying bureaucrats, I still find it very difficult to treat myself with any degree of kindness. My myriad failings are unforgivable. My countless flaws a perpetual indictment. I’ve often said that, were I to stumble across a time machine, I’d go back and kick my own ass ceaselessly from about the ages of 17 to 25. Even now, when I receive perfectly valid criticism, my first reaction is usually to think to myself, “Well, I guess I’m just a piece of shit.” Anything less than perfection is difficult to accept, which is fucking hilarious when I’m overweight, socially awkward, and perpetually struggling to improve even a single aspect of my life.
As I write this, I find myself hesitating as I veer toward the sort of internal monologue I usually reserve for my journal, but this is less of a daily entry and more thematic, so I’m willing to roll with it. Part of the conflict, I think, stems from the fact that I’ve not been writing nearly as much as I’d like so blogging and journaling have started losing their distinctions. Writer’s block is a supremely frustrating sensation, as I suppose any sort of drought among the creative juices must be. I’ve made several attempts at writing about my multitude of misadventures in the romantic sphere, but I find myself staring at the screen, unable to find a narrative to follow. I have copious data I could share, but no compelling story to tell.
My hope, moving forward, is that I can finally unfuck myself and begin to live a marginally more productive life. I’ve been in a near-endless trench of depression for close to two years now and I’m not quite ready to say it’s lifting, but it’s never as bad as when I’m idle. Between panic attacks, multiple penis-probing medical procedures, countless hours bottle-feeding kittens, terrifying at least one young woman at Starbucks, and just generally wanting to be dead, I’d say this past summer was absolute shit and I’m so fucking glad I’ve got something to keep me occupied. Of course, the challenge is finding the energy and motivation amid my exhausting job.
One final aside: the new Tool album that came out recently has many themes that resonate strongly with me. I won’t go so far as to credit my nascent recovery to the music, but some of the lyrics have been remarkably apropos:
“Sound the dread alarm through the primal body. Sound the reveille, to be or not to be. Rise, stay the grand finale. Stay the reading of our swan song and epilogue. One drive to stay alive. Elementary, muster every fiber. Mobilize, stay alive. Stir us from our wanton slumber. Mitigate our ruin, call us all to arms and order.”
Tool – Descending
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