I’ve had (and have) problems. Problems I invented. Problems I wanted to get away from. I drank a little much. I still don’t really exercise enough. I shake and sweat uncontrollably. I shut down and avoid dealing with things. I am frayed, frazzled and burnt the fuck out — and have been for as long as I can remember. Right now, as I write this, I look like I’ve been hung in a smokehouse and run over by a truck. I walk with an unsteady gait. I sit hunched like a geriatric Quasimodo. Oh, how many days my alarm’s gone off, I’ve hit snooze, said “Fuck this shit,” and said, “I’ll try again tomorrow,” — all before 9 a.m. Sure, I want those days back. I make no secret about it. I wasted them all. Sometimes while wasted. I let my problems become mistakes. See? Backwards.
I am so concerned with how I am that I actually forget to just … well … be. I don’t converse well with anyone beyond pithy zingers. I don’t share anything of substance with people in real life beyond music or humor. The National once sang, “When I walk into a room … I do not light it up.” It hits home so hard. So much wattage is being expended gathering, re-gathering and napalming my abusive and destructive inner dialogue, so many inward-facing amps, that the energy directed outward is muted and minimal. My body is here. My mind is not. I’m not present. I’m not really here.
I also wonder when I start developing healthy habits. I spend the vast majority of my time stuffing my face with pizza, watching football and fretting recklessly over what I’m going to do with the rest of my life now that I have a clear-ish head. I suppose it beats lying on the lawn and holding onto a blade grass to stop myself from falling off the face of the Earth.