Greyscale

Captain’s Log, Stardate June 2, 2019:

Here I am again, once again. I steel feel removed, stale, don’t know what I mean anymore. Seems to be a common trend. Seems to me like my way of being is trying to figure out my way of being. Trying to find what’s wrong. That sense of something missing. Of emptiness. It’s nothing new but it’s not something you can get used to. I. You. Or whoever.

It feels like there’s pressure on my heart, in my head, in my chest space. On my soul. I still struggle with the same things I always have. And, at the time of this writing, it’s Ramadan. And I wish it was more ideal but life is never really ideal (at least not for too long). My anxiety is through the roof. The roof, through it, is my anxiety. I miss therapy. It’s my birthday in 4 days. I turn 31. One year closer to leaving this earth. I should be more happy, but I feel resigned. But Allah is greater than my pain and I listened to some Quran earlier and now I feel better so Alhamdulillah.

I’m sick of writing and revising and sitting around lonely. This is not glamorous. This mostly hurts. Then again, due to my complex PTSD, I mostly always hurt. It’s a beautiful sunny day and now its been ruined by this. No one is here at the workshop. Why did I start it? Why do I write? To feel okay about myself, but there’s also a performance aspect to it. And I don’t like that. I’m trying. But I feel really bad right now. About my writing group. Consider it a failure. No one showed up, I feel abandoned. Shit. That’s it, isn’t it? This isn’t about writing at all.

This is about abandonment and how could I not feel that way while sitting in this empty room that was supposed to be full of writing peers but no one showed up except for the rude white lady who kept walking through all disrespectful on her way to the bathroom. Like this is a public space and not a private room. Like she doesn’t see my dreams on the floor, under feet, as she tramples through all willy-nilly.

ANYWAY, I seem to recall Octavia Butler saying in an interview, something along the lines of: “when I get what most people call writer’s block, it’s not that I can’t write, it’s just that what I’m working on is difficult and doesn’t feel like worth spending time on. But I have to work on it anyway, just get through it. There will come a time when you will want to burn it or flush it, but if you’re really serious about this thing, you’ll find a way to continue.”

And now I have to find a way to continue, with all the pain in my stomach, regret on my mind. Anxiety from not being able to push through this hurdle. I call it revision hell, and it will only hurt the longer I choose to stay here. Gotta fight my way out this paper bag. You want it all, Said, but you can’t have everything you want.

Captain’s Log, Addendum. June 10, 2019:

It’s been about 8 days after I last wrote in this document. It’s 330PM and I’m feeling as weird as ever. Ambivalent, floating, spacey. Just kind of silent and withdrawn. I didn’t go to work today. I called in sick 6 minutes before my shift start time. Sometimes you just don’t feel it. Sometimes you need a personal day. Sometimes the regret won’t go away.

But in good news, I pushed through that revision hurdle. I finished that one piece that I really needed to. I got through it how I always get through difficult writing: one word, sentence, line at a time. Now I’m on relaxation mode as I get ready for this trip to new York.

This is really good coffee, it’s Kenyan. I miss Kenya. Don’t I deserve a break? Bro. You deserve a vacation. A change of scenery. A month to just breathe. Well, look, man. Graduation. I thought I would feel happier, more elated, but it’s just one more step. One thing I’m finding out is that regret and shame will never run out of reasons to be a part of my life. Perfectionism. Well, I don’t know, whatever, never mind.

Smells like teen spirit was playing yesterday or the day before, at the paintball arena, as I walked up to the Somali girl who had gotten shot with paintballs at point blank range. I wanted to tell her that everything would be okay, that she didn’t have to cry anymore, and that I was the one who told the guy to apologize to her. And I did. I mean, a few months ago, I would have never had the emotional stability and self confidence to pull any of that off. Can you not see how far we’ve come, Said?

Sometimes I wake up in the afternoon and walk to a coffee shop and get high off that Kenyan AA pour-over and start typing and get into a zone, a mood. Here we are now, entertain us. I feel stupid, and contagious.

And the sky is blue.