The Year the World Crumbled and I Found My Existential Glue
Here I am, sitting in bed, and was just seized by the following ruminations, while trying to get to bed far too late. All my attempts at doing so seem to be completely sabotaged and bollocksed by my own inability to turn off my brain.
Through my writing, my attempt at understanding myself have become better and better this last year, especially in the last three weeks writing every day on Medium.
I cannot adequately describe the joy I have been feeling in watching my — as of yet small — dedicated community of fellow writers and readers unfolding piecemeal; clap by clap, follow by follow. I wanted to tell you: you are my joy. With each interaction I am not only feeling the love and getting the value, but also giving the love and returning the value.
It is odd, really. Who would’ve thought: that the very lost, very confused me of three years ago might have crystallised into someone with such a very clear creative path as that which I now feel I have.
And I can’t help but wonder, to what extent, Dad, was this not your ethereal doing? I still don’t get it — what was it about your death that cracked open my formerly fettered heart and creativity to the extent that it did? Perhaps one day I will know, Dad. I miss you immeasurably. (My father, my beautiful friend, passed away in November 2019).
Writing has now become a daily activity for me, with such a sense of play, pleasure, and purpose as I have never experienced before. The terror of the blank page is no longer the reason for my existential nausea; much in the same way, the fear of judgement is no longer the reason I do not write.
Yet it seems pointless for me to try and “what if” my way into the past so as to reimagine my present, and to think that had I not “wasted” all those years on being a rock star without a band I would have got more writing done. I can now embrace my scars, and much of the bitter resentment which up until three years ago was corroding my spirit seems to have completely dissipated.
Perhaps it was really the removal of alcohol from my life that allowed me this level of clarity. When I try and mentally review the amount of pain I was in, it is almost as if it were someone else who had gone through it, not me, and it is from this very detachment which I am now free to write about the world rather than myself. I have written myself out of the equation, to an extent, and that is a relief.
As each day closes, and I get into bed, I have trouble sleeping — but not for the same reasons that the old me was kept awake — because I cannot shut the torrent of ideas in my mind off, and am frequently. overwhelmed by my own mental clarity.
This is not to say however that I have fully conquered the scatterbrain disposition of my ADHD. I suppose I will always have trouble picking one thing over another, simply because now, more than ever, everything seems exciting, as if my life were a sepia still colored in by new technology. But there is a keen, singular focus that was absent until now, and that is writing.
It is truly strange to think that the very year the world crumbled, I successfully pieced myself back together again precisely because all of my security blankets were pulled out from under my feet.
But so it is. And so, it feels fine.
© Pedro B. Gorman