My Phone Is Boring. Also Brexit Sucks

Okay, it is time to admit it: I started to miss social media. My phone, aside from the “call” and “text” functions (okay, and WhatsApp) seems like a glorified clock. Well, I do still use the camera. But anytime I take my phone, I might look into the browser (there are things that I might read Someday, there), I can clear some data, take a selfie and check emails… and then I run out of things to do. It is not a little eerie that a thing that used to occupy many of my precious HOURS is now seemingly useless.

A grinning selfie of Rita wearing a cowlneck sweater standing in a white walk in wardrobe with a steel pole for hangers shining above her.
Here is one I took in a hotel wardrobe in Peterborough. It’s a long story.

But here is the one thing I don’t miss: Brexit. Even with my limited media intake at present, trying to actively avoid knowledge of it while preparing for its eventual presence, it is ubiquitous. Friends send links; my radio/alarm clock device talks about Theresa May with relish while I blearily try to get my bearings in the morning; randomly picked up newspapers share that David Cameron bought himself a cottage to write his memoirs. Nice job if you can have it, I suppose.

A cutout of a small article from a Tube newspaper with a picture of visibly older David Cameron, captioned "I'd promised; David Cameron yesterday" and the following text: "The 52-year-old has kept a low profile since standing down and has bought himself a £25000 shepherd's hut, with sofa bed and wood burning stove, in which to write his memoirs at the family home in the Cotswolds". There is also a cut off headline: "(I have no) regrets over calling (the referendum). I do regret result."
David Cameron doesn’t regret the referendum. How nice for him.

The word on everybody’s lips appears to be… Brexit (sung to Chicago’s “Roxie”, of course) and while I understand why, I’ll admit to being weary. I would like to be more of an activist, and when I rebuild my mental health and good online habits, I will likely look into pragmatic and not-burnout-threatening ways to engage; however right now self-care and showing up at a heavily understaffed workplace (my current line of non-artistic work attracts a lot of immigrants…) take up all available energy and time. I am doing small things, like cooking and essential oil baths, and bigger things – like applying for festivals and figuring out my artistic plans; I might, at some point, resurrect F*cking European as it is undoubtedly timely. What I refuse to do is be buried in a news avalanche. I have good sleeping habits; I intend to keep those.

A Vispring Luxury Beds ad, featuring a beautiful king size bed with a blue decorative throw and a tagline "Don't let Brexit keep you awake at night/Sleep well. Live better."
This is an ad in a free Tube “style” magazine, usually safely devoid of political matters. Now they have political mattresses.

For now, three weeks in this self-imposed fast, I find myself reflecting on the power of boundaries – a topic that has been more and more relevant of late. In trying to consciously engage, I have refused to be drawn into the information miasma, refused to be swallowed by the clickbait monster. In the attention economy, I am hoarding my precious currency, mostly because – tired as I feel – I want to spend every penny on things that matter. In this last stretch to Brexit, many things matter less… and things that used to be less important matter more. Example: I take joy in throwing things out and arranging them to my satisfaction: it’s a physical representation of the streamlining process that my life is currently undergoing.

A square Ikea container with dividers, stuffed with socks and underwear, all stored vertically.
Marie Kondo would be proud.

I discovered of late that while I could go to Berlin or Warsaw and start everything anew, I value the life I made; I have found friends, career and love here; I want to stay. Working towards a sustainable life that would allow me to do that occupies a large portion of my attention. It feels terrifying and vulnerable to admit that much; to be attached; to be at the mercy of Home Office in this way. But that’s the way my path seems to lie. I’ll tidy socks, make a freezer dinner and start learning for the Life In The UK Test. At least my pub quiz career has given me some preparation…. and while I live the uncertainty, I don’t know how to finish this post. It’s hard to say that I am purely hopeful; but I’m being pragmatic and taking care of myself. As per site policies, right now that is good enough.

Being Off Facebook: Good, Bad And Tedious

First of all, let’s get this out of the way: yes, I will publish this post on my Facebook, so feel free to chuckle at the irony. All done? Good.

I don’t know why I called the post that when the results are mostly good. Turn of phrase, really. It’s my blog, so there.

It’s been a week since I went off my social media (mostly) and while that doesn’t seem like much, I know for a fact there are people for whom that’s a long time – and that I am one of them. I used to get offline at my Mum’s, as she steadfastly believes WiFi is harmful to the brain and refuses to get one (there is a USB modem), but nowadays the data on my British phone costs the same within EU; so I didn’t get offline this Christmas. Sadly. I guess I had to fix that!

A selfie of Rita gazing at the camera with a half-smile while wearing a pink bowtie with navy blue polka dots and a black top.
Christmas: didn’t get offline, did get a bowtie. Worth it!

What changed with going offline?

  1. I was calmer right away. My job(s) carry considerable tensions on their own (I work in a special school as well as being a self-employed artist), so any stress reduction is very, very welcome. I expected that would happen, but not the extent.
  2. I missed Instagram soonest. I guiltily flicked through during first two days of this media fast, turning it on for two seconds and then switching it off. On the flipside, I’ve been taking more pictures, even though I can’t post them!
  3. I got lonely! I called my Mum a lot this week, definitely more than usual, I also reached out to my brother and friends. And even though I listened to podcasts before, now they’re a voice that I’m inviting into solitude. When my flatmate was away, I was putting the music on very loudly to chase the feeling away.
  4. Books! My book reading habits made a slow reappearance. Missing the written word and the information is definitely A Thing. I also read my favourite newsletters with more focus (Mark Manson and Frugalwoods currently, if you were wondering).
  5. Feelings! Whenever I experience discomfort I have to deal with it like a grown human because There Is Nothing To Do On My Phone. Only so much email I can read. Although sometimes I can lose myself in some photo editing, but it’s not an obsessive or frequent activity. So when things feel Not Good, it has to be journaling or meditating or exercise or talking to another human or any other way of Dealing With It (spoiler alert: also been cutting processed sugar, so not eating my troubles just now).
  6. Poetry. I started leaving for work a bit early, just so I can get a seat on the Tube and write some poems. I probably wrote more poems this week than in the last six months or so. Having a dedicated time and a lack of other options decidedly helps. I also managed to write down some comedy monologues – if you open the door, things come in!
  7. Productivity has benefitted, no question. Recently I applied for an artistic residency four (FOUR) days before the deadline. For a person like myself, who is no stranger to frantically pressing “send” at 23.59 before the deadline turns the potential application into a pumpkin-flavoured disappointment, that is a Big Thing.
  8. I’m making other changes. It’s January and I have a couple of important months ahead of me. Can I obtain British citizenship or is it too late? Can I stay in my current employment or is it not feasible? I have already made some decisions on several fronts, and I usually tend to procrastinate over those while Scrolling Through Stuff. The New Year’s energy likely helps (new beginnings!), but so does the clarity of not having the online escape.
  9. My brain has slowed down. That is a good thing. My brain usually straddles the line between “lightning fast” and “all the directions, all at once”, and then it beats itself to death with its own grey matter. I never ever want to take cocaine, for Reasons.
  10. I’m up-to-date with most housework. I have reasonable amounts of dishes to clean, and while the laundry isn’t folded, it has been done regularly and properly. I’m hardly perfect in that respect, but…. it’s been easier.
A picture of a lunchbox filled with cooked salmon on bed of rice, with visible sugar snaps, broccoli and cherry tomatoes.
This is some serious foodporn, amirite

I do miss my social media, but there is a strange satisfaction in holding off checking them. I even went on Facebook event pages a couple times when there was no other way, copied the hours and address and exited without scrolling through my timeline or checking anything. Guess resistance can feel good… Maybe it is a little tedious, stopping myself every time I would have accessed the easy pleasure of reading through people’s lives (and links!). But so far the results have been worth it.

I have as of this writing 72 notifications on my Facebook. I wanted to check it today as I’ll have little time tomorrow, but maybe should hold out for a hundred…?

I’m Going Offline! Well, Kind Of. Mostly.

My name is Rita. I am a solo artist.

There is a chance you knew this about me. I do solo shows: comedy, mostly, often with swear words in the titles, but also theatre and poetry (got something cooking right now!). As a solo artist, the only way to work with others is when I get cast in somebody else’s work, or when I hire someone. So most of the time, I work alone.

I. Can. Not. Get. Stuff. Done. For The Life Of Me. And if you tell me that I do, I’ll rephrase: I get Some Stuff Done, Sometimes. The ideas/creation ratio is deeply, deeply unsatisfactory.

fuck-it-instagram
Me in 2017, swearing in my first show’s title.


Facebook and their compatriots put some serious work into reprogramming my brain. I will humbly admit that I may be on the susceptible end of the spectrum: I like to read, I’m procrastination-prone… I was made for loving you, baby…! (Internet). My intense reading habit – something my family spoke with half-admiration, half-exasperation when I was a child – has shifted online almost completely. I’ve been paying library fines for about 6 months, because I do, in fact, want to read those books about history of hip-hop and British class system (two different books, though that would be a fun read….). Bottom line, I NEED TO STOP BEING ON-LINE, PRONTO.

Am I deleting my Facebook account? No. Not that simple.

As an artist, I need an Online Presence. As a human, I enjoy easy access to my friends and finding out about events I might attend. Overall, I can’t be fully offline – I have work that comes via email, I have things that need to be promoted. Rather than disappearing, I want to show up consciously, when I have someting to say.

So what I’m choosing to do is, from 4 January for about a month, get on Facebook once a week – to publish a blogpost. Twitter and Instagram will also benefit from my blogging, but that will be the extent of it; there will be no Netflix, YouTube or NowTV. I even plan to download albums off Spotify, so that I can remain offline from it, too.

I’m leaving my burgeoning podcasting habit alone. I tend to clean when I listen to podcasts, so that makes them good in my book.

Will it be worth it? Will it, as I hope, shift my focus a bit?

I have a lot of work on my plate this month – completing my tax return for one. It will definitely be interesting to see whether I feel any different or function better. For now, I invite you to hang out with me as I’m trying this thing out. The next post might be all about my favourite YouTube shows, just because I’ll miss them…!

#TimeToTalk – #BreakTheSilence on mental health


It’s Thursday morning and anxiety is being a bit of a bitch. I slept badly – too cold, rough dreams – and struggle to make myself do things. I talk myself through it – through shower, nice breakfast, a bit of calming exercise – but I still fail at time management. I’m late. A bit mad with myself. Make that very mad. I don’t know what to do. 

I’m late to a very nice workshop that I attended last week too. It’s made for and by refugees and free (donations for food) and it makes me feel conflicted. Those familiar with my situation know that I’m not earning much and haven’t been for a while. It might change soon (fingers crossed), but doing anything nice that isn’t a gig (or otherwise directly career-related) makes me feel guilty. Nevermind that if I want to help refugees, here is the thing I can do – donate time, attention, workshop-leading skills and some English language conversation. So on top of all these feelings now I have being late, which is a particular emotional bruise – I’d say trigger, but who knows what could crawl out of the depths of the Internet to accuse me of being a snowflake? – and so, I struggle. To go or not to go.

After provoking an argument with one of my nearest and dearest (argument that didn’t need to happen, only I was so mad) I sit down with myself and hash out a solution. I’ll go to the very end of the event. Then I’ll have shown up but I’ll sidestep being late AND still
leave the house. The mental labirynth required here is still better than curling up with my phone, reading about politics for the rest of the day. I curled up for about an hour an a half, but it’s still a win.

This blog, Good Enough Diary, is a bit of an homage to writer’s block – after all, suffering writer needing something to kickstart
creativity is a figure we’re all familiar with. It’s harder to admit that I likely suffer from some species of anxiety mixed with previously diagnosed moodiness and depression. When I’m low, going out of the house is hard – but being around people tends to make me feel better. Conversation, speaking out, expressing – those things make me feel better. And yet it’s so hard to say this, what I’m saying now. It is so very hard. Yes, I have suffered from depression, but I don’t like even saying that. So many people have worse problems, worse bouts. I’m not self-harming, my self-neglect tendencies are presently manageable (mostly I tend to go the other way, making healthy food and such) and people with “real” problems would laugh me out of the door.

Except what is real? And why do I invalidate my own reality?

I’m currently on a no sugar diet (health-related), but if I’m not – an argument with my partner could be a box of cookies, or binge watching a show. I enjoy both of those things, but they can be abused as well. Externalising emotion, guilt, blame – and on top I’d rather say that I’m fine. English culture is not helping here – does anyone ever expect an honest answer to a “How are you?”. I don’t like to complain and when I’m sad, being candid feels like laying my problems at someone’s feet.

There, I’ve said it. Not all. People who know me as a chatterbox could likely be shocked by the presence of hidden depths. I talk a lot, but there are things held back, too. Things I’m scared to talk about, or reluctant. Ashamed. Like when I’m late or cancel, caught up in my brain, I often make a story up because I can’t bear to admit I’m feeling too low to struggle through the door. Or how I numb feeling by reading too much. Or eating, or watching. You throw stuff at feelings you don’t know how to deal with. I’m not alone in this strategy but it feels like I am, sometimes.

I’m reading a number of wonderful books (Brene Brown is a particular favourite) that make me realise that my problems are legitimate and I’m adding to them by my silence. By self-shaming. Well, I’m talking now. My problems are real, but their weight wouldn’t be so heavy if I wasn’t ashamed, if I didn’t feel alone, if I wasn’t scared that they make me unlovable. And I am a person with a significant support network. So if you’re reading this, please know that I love you and am grateful for you, just my brain was not socialised to treat me well.

We’re retraining, brain and I.

So now it’s time to apologise for the missed workshop. And later a friend will WhatsApp from Italy – she’s somebody with whom I can talk about all this. And it’s important, people – because you need to hear the right message again and again if it’s to stay in your brain, especially if your default setting is the opposite. If you’re set up for shame, guilt, invalidating your own emotion – if you can’t deal with sadness or anger or disappointment other than burying it under sugar or alcohol or Facebook – there can never be too many times to hear that you’re alright, you’re valued, you’re allowed to speak out.

Beautiful people, love yourselves. Learn to, slowly. Patiently. Time to talk. Time to talk. Time to talk.

Patreon: I Will Fail To Start With, That’s Fine (also, I Did The Show!)

So I HAVE DONE MY ONE WOMAN SHOW OH MY GOD.

Deep breath, now.

It’s awesome. The turnout was good (I feel incredibly privileged there, recently saw an Edinburgh preview that was EMPTY….) and the feedback better. There are messages on my phone from people who really wanted to come and couldn’t – whether politeness or genuine desire, I’ll find out next time I do the show!

There WILL be a next time. Meanwhile, I used the fact that I was already doing something scary and attached another scary thing to it: a Patreon account.

You might not know about Patreon. It is basically an online patronage system when you regularly support an artist – not like a one-off Kickstarter, more like… a coffee per month.

So, I  launched my Patreon. And… nothing happened.

Yet.

***

The thing with Patreon is that it is extremely deliberate. It requires a vision of yourself as an artist, a business, a service-provider – but also a person in a relationship with other peple. It humanises the business – you are in touch with nice people who want to personally support you – but it also makes your art something worthy of payment and attention. If you have hang-ups anywhere in this process, whether subconsciously fearing attention or struggling with the business model, the Patreon might not work.

For me the problem is being consistent (I switch media all the time, which doesn’t offer an overarching artistic narrative!) as well as business-related. But at the same time, it is so fun to figure out all the ways to be genuinely nice to people who want to support you, your art and message! And so I’m really, really okay with failing to begin with. Patreon gives me a medium, through which I can sort out my relationship with both art and audience. And eventually, it will give me a way of creating independent art, without fighting for commissions. It’s worth failing, worth putting the work in. I’m
looking forward to that… .

Getting It Together For The Purpose Of Focusing

I have to be brief.

I have to be relatively brief or at least write quickly, because even though I’ve planned this blogpost for months, I’m in something of a rush.

Looks like I keep failing my own perfectionism lesson. Some months ago, I started thinking of making Good Enough Diary my main webpage. My “brand”. Consequently, I stopped writing in it. Nothing wrong with having a brand, I just struggle with commitment; that’s why I have this blog in the first place.

The second reason I stopped writing was embarking upon a jobsearching adventure without an actual plan. I was ashamed of my lack of success. I stopped writing, because I didn’t believe I had anything to say – I wanted to inspire people, not drag them down with my lack of planning. I forgot that it’s vulnerability and story that inspires, not only success itself.

Essentially, I quit my job assuming that I was a different person that I really am. I wasn’t all wrong. I am capable of having adventures, I’m capable of tremendous effort and making leaps of faith. But I forgot that next to those qualities I’m prone to anxiety, which makes it a struggle to leave the house – which makes anxiety worse – which makes me want to read all the time – and at the end of the process, I had to rebuild my worth as a person. I had to drag myself out by my ears.

Newly-discovered nostalgia for Poland and eating my body weight in cheesecake certainly didn’t help.

And here I am. It’s been a fruitful year, even if I didn’t write in here much. I was in Vagina Monologues. I wrote plays, poems, played a one woman show in Polish, directed and edited a music video. I worked out regularly and started a stand-up comedy habit. I’ve done a lot of stuff for an anxiety-ridden, unemployed and occasionally depressed person.

And now? I’m about to turn thirty and I’m doing a one woman show tomorrow. It’s called Fuck It, I’m Thirty. It’s free entry and maybe the scariest thing I’ll have done so far.

So I’m tying up that loose end that itched at me – wanting to write on the blog – and going away, so I can stop distracting myself with the wrong kind of writing and get freaking ready for my freaking show.

fuck-it-instagram

Good Enough Hack: Name It, Don’t Shame It (Con Artist Syndrome)

When I started writing this blog, there was one aim, one and only.

The aim for this blog was: to write it.

And the more I wrote and achieved, the more my ambition woke up to it. I started wondering whether I should have a website (I should; I attempted one at http://www.ritasuszek.weebly.com; of course, it’s unfinished), whether this blog should be my online presence (debatable; also, do I feel comfortable sharing that much of myself as official?). In short, I started expecting things.

I stopped writing.

Time has passed. I need to write whether the blog is “ready” or not. I deviated from its mission of casual while-you-wait creativity. So I am back, with my Good Enough Hack, which is… name the problem.

I have a recurring mental health problem. You could call it a version of impostor syndrome; I privately call it Con Artist Syndrome: my feeling that I’m cheating people into believing I’m worth something as an artist, as a professional. Surely if they saw me – the real me, scrambling for deadlines, wandering the house in yesterday socks – they would scorn the picture I make. So I scorn it for them. I hurt myself as I fully believe I deserve, before I get hurt by others. In a preparation of sorts.

I want to be the early-morning-rising, writing-at-her-own-tidy-desk, excercising-four-hours-a-day artist. Nothing less will do. Nothing less is worth it. And truthfully, it’s not impossible – I have been that person (well, the four hours is usually in a workshop, and I don’t own a desk, but details). But I’m not that person right now, I’m not that person all the time. Nothing else will do. I don’t deserve help if I can’t make it on my own.

See this? This, this knife’s edge either-or black-and-white obsession has been haunting my days. Whenever I start small – and I need to start small to start at all, sometimes – I preemptively scorn the effort. Can you picture this? Picture a child, stumbling on short legs to give you a hug. Now picture turning away and saying: you don’t get a hug until you stop holding the walls. Take yourself seriously, now. Practice. Maybe one day, you’ll deserve the love. Be ambitious, dream big. But how can you start your engine without fuel?

I’m saying all these wrong-headed things to articulate just how wrong-headed they are. I’ve had them for years, and they come and go: company of good people will chase them away, or when I sustain a meditation habit, or when I dance frequently. But I’m in a crisis now, and writing is all there is, in a sense – I can’t keep asking my partner to love me out of my blues. His love can’t reach places I don’t love, myself.

I’m sitting in a cafe and crying discreetly. This is a win: I left the house. When I’m gripped by those feelings, one thing that helps is leaving the house, meeting people, social activity. Simultaneously, when I’m gripped by these feelings, I cancel meetings, call in sick at work, postpone walks. I say to myself: you can’t leave until you clean your room, do the work, shape up. You don’t deserve the reward. You have to earn it.

Self-punishment, self-sabotage, scorning of the body – I sometimes stop eating/eat badly, postpone showering or getting dressed. Postpone writing, say all these things in my head. And of course, read a lot of stories, watch a lot of shows. It is a time-honored coping mechanism for me: escaping into my head and imagination. Perhaps it started in childhood: I got bullied and I loved books, so going outdoors stopped being attractive pretty quickly. (later I got bullied because I loved books and talked “funny”).

Again: this is a good day. I started getting it together yesterday – I did indeed clean my room up a bit, put together a load of laundry. Today I’ve been working on being okay with everything that’s been happening. (Got up late – okay. Had breakfast – okay. As opposed to low-level murmur of “you already ruined your day by getting up too late, now it’s not worth doing anything”). Interestingly, my brain tends to play hide-and-seek: whenever I come up with a solution to a made-up problem, my brain throws a block at me – it’s like a scene in an adventure movie, you know, when the hero is about to be trapped and all those walls come down wherever she looks? My brain is a labyrinth and it keeps itself entertained. Wherever I turn to, a wall comes down. Except the walls aren’t real, and whenever I venture  outside the confines of my tortured brain, I re-discover this: I can walk through walls like a ghost. Because things in my brain are as real as I allow them to be.

 

20160705_152739

Now I’m in a cafe, about to work on a grant application that I SHOULD have sent weeks ago, because it’s been ready, but I dawdled, because I need advice on a detail or two. Frankly, if I’m writing, I’m already on the road to recovery.

So, recovery list:

name the problem. Writing helps. I’ll try and name/refute the limiting/fearful statements that keep coming up (or down, like walls).

for the love of all that’s holy, leave the bloody house! You deserve it! Parks are good. Theatre is good. Friends are great.

purge some emotion. I always cry while watching cartoons. Also, Fried Green Tomatoes – guaranteed fountain.

exercise if you can – if you can trust yourself not to turn it into “I should work out more” baseball bat to bash yourself with.

 

 

 

 

Halfway To Thirty (Also Brexit, Fuck)

6 months left until I hit the big 30! Feeling lost, confused, helpless, sad, confused… Granted, some of it might be due to Brexit. And no sugar diet (hello, withdrawal).

The big leading Thing of Things that seems to be happening in my life: in my race to Become A Cool Person (which is not always successful, let’s face it) I seem to have lost the person that I actually am. Cue rude awakening. See confusion. Example: I want to be the person who gets up early (I do function better in the mornings), but right this minute I am not that person. Responding in my favorite way (with guilt and bitter self-recrimination) really does not yield the desired effects. Changing the response incoming. Frankly, I’m not sure who I am, who I think I should be, who I’m becoming, who I want to become. There are things going right – I have to work on the appreciation of The Good Things – but mostly I’m looking around, wide-eyed, going: is this me?

Also, this just in: I might be an introvert. Please stop laughing. Is there a late onset? I love people; I tend to be at my best in (good) company, enjoy being centre of attention, etc etc. But people exhaust me, too. Maybe just now I have a lower tolerance – crowds definitely a no-no. Also, I’ve not been leaving the house due to freelance/mugging and subsequent fear of dark & outdoors/post-Brexit low mood.

On the bright side, there is writing. Writing is the best. If I rouse myself from reading-induced stupor (favorite escapism, now that eating a pack of cookies is not an option) and start writing, I know I’m gonna be okay. Writing, verbalizing – they keep me sane. That’s why I talk so much. Well, I talk for many reasons. I hide in plain sight sometimes – if I speak of it all, no one suspects there’s anything deeper. But writing… is the easiest, most accessible way of coping. So if I have enough energy to write a blog post, an article, recently (!) a fanfic, I know I’ll be okay eventually.

Ongoing creative projects: #GirlfagThePlay (egads, it’s slow-going! I’ll get there), Safe, the one-woman show (might rename it Shame, or something related). Newest idea: a stand-up show called A Fucking European. Oh, and the Polish-language show, No Such Place As London. Now just need enough focus to do these. 🙂

Girlfag Is Back (She Never Left)

I’m writing. I’m confused. Nothing new here.

Don’t know if I’m not doing a good enough job, representing myself, representing people – or should I let go of Things That Happened and get on with Characters I Have?

I keep thinking that I’d not evolved enough to write this play. That the character – played, after all, by me – has a more interesting potential life that my own has ever been. So, er, I’m displeased with my own life, which hinders me writing? Certain things are ridiculous (ungrateful – unappreciative) when you write them down. Probably why I’m here.

Maybe I should give up on acting. I’m so busy being not-good-enough-me that it’s hard to represent anyone else. Even myself from the past/alternative future. There’s a fallacy in this not-good-enough-ism – I know it, even if I can’t cross over it just now.

My gender swirls around. I don’t want to be a woman. I don’t want to be a man. As a woman I’m wounded; as a man I’m erased. I’m more than that, but also other. Also the freak, yearning to be normal. Also burlesque, also a sexual self that is buried somewhere so deep down I can’t find it. I don’t want to find it, lately. I’m running in opposite direction. Almost thirty and still scared of myself.

Don’t know what to do. Read a lot to get away from myself. Exist in this slightly spaced out disconnected realm. Not a body, a floating brain. I look down at myself, high on loneliness.

I want this play to be warm. Connected. Imperfect. Real. The shame I feel is tainting all, cutting me off.

I could (have) write a play per day, if I let myself feel. I could, technically, finish this play in a week. If I let myself go that deep. If I dared to go that deep. It’s a prayer, at this point. I want to connect, want to love, be vulnerable, be not-alone, be understood. Be out of that shameful place. My self, listening, because I don’t believe in a higher power other than myself, trapped in mundanity, trapped in shame – o self, listening, watching, please breathe out. Please let me write my play. Even if I don’t want to be what I am, please let me move past the revulsion. Please let me write my play. And for the third time, please let me touch my own strength, determination, love – because what good am I, if I can’t do this? Please let me write my play.

 

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