Most of the entries on my blog are these random introspective pieces, which I affectionately categorise as “musings.” They’re the byproduct of late-night contemplative keyboard smashing that results in raw, unfiltered thoughts. I refrain from editing them, save for spelling and grammar, in an effort to preserve their authenticity. The time spent on these musings is as fleeting as the impulse that drives me to write them in the first place; sometimes it’s an hour, sometimes a mere five minutes. After each session I go through the same song and dance of questioning my intent and whether it’s even worth sharing, before ultimately hitting the upload button with my eyes closed. Externalising my internal chaos is cathartic; a liberating process that stands in stark contrast to the demand for curated perfection in the other areas of my life.
Sometimes though, I do write with a specific purpose. Some of my posts have a distinct topic or theme, and on rare occasions, I even write essays. One such piece already exists on my blog, and I’m hoping to publish another soon. It’s crossed 14,000 words but this particular essay has been a challenge to write. It’s personal and political, and I’ve been working on it for nearly two months – a testament to the weight of its content.
I’m also working on creating photo albums, from my life, from around 2005 up until today. It’s been fun to go through my past, seeing all the adventures I’ve had and remembering things I’d forgotten. It’s also been sad, as I’m watching my life pass me by through a handful of still images. There are happy times with people I don’t speak to anymore; people who used to be my closest friends and now we’re basically strangers. It’s also hard seeing younger me, knowing what he felt in those moments, and knowing what is coming his way. I want to scream at him through the pictures to warn him. There’s discomfort in revisiting certain moments, but avoiding them is not the answer. The albums, like this blog, deserve authenticity.
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When my family gets together, emotions tend to run high as we always seem to tiptoe on the precipice of a major fallout. Everyone is so on edge in order to avoid an argument but in being so careful, our tensions rise and we end up exploding into something anyway.
Confronting my family on the impact of their actions on my mental health is daunting. My intention is never to assign blame but even my cautious attempts are met with defensiveness. There’s always discomfort when I try to articulate the emotional issues I’m dealing with, it seems the mere suggestion that their actions have contributed to my struggles shuts them down before the conversation even starts.
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On the surface, my childhood looks idyllic; I was fortunate, and had a lot of opportunities, as well as a loving family. However, when I look back at it, it’s hard to escape the shadow of obligations that I was not able to fulfil. I’m still suffering from the burden of carrying all those expectations.
When I look back, I see a child that was sometimes listened to but never heard. He was stifled at every opportunity by people who thought they knew better, and he was never allowed to be himself. They threw shit at him to see what stuck, and at the end of it, he was just covered in shit.
There was also a lot of tension in my past, and that’s where the seeds of the things I struggle with today were sown. It’s why I may sometimes feel inadequate, not enough, alone, unloved, unworthy, or just plain sad. To reiterate, it is not about blame, it is about recognising my childhood traumas. The echoes of everything I went through reverberate in me today, and I’m trying to move beyond them – which requires introspection, understanding, and acceptance.
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I’m going on a lot of dates at the moment, which I think is a good thing. I used to go looking for someone who’d fill a void, but now I’m just happy to be meeting some really cool people. I can’t help but notice the sudden accelerated pace of relationships around me though; lots of my friends are beginning to get engaged, and some are getting married. I feel like they’re racing down a motorway without taking in the view. I do think that some of my friends are pressing the fast-forward button too eagerly. It’s not a critique per se, but a thought on the varying tempos of our lives. I find myself moving at a slower pace, whereas others sprint towards their milestones.
I’ve had a handful of dates with some women who have been 8/9/10 years older than me. It’s a much bigger gap than I’ve experienced before. We always bring up the topic of age, and we end up talking about nostalgia. I think it’s to find out what we remember, and what we connect on. Sometimes we discuss a movie that came out when they were nine and I was just born, or maybe a TV show that I grew up watching that their younger brother did too.
I don’t know what to make of it really. My mates act like it’s a bit strange, but my parents were 10 years apart, and I don’t feel it’s particularly weird. If the person I’m seeing likes me, and if I like her, then I don’t know why we couldn’t continue; having said this, I am aware that we might be at different stages of life and that’s something I can’t change.