I wish I could play with Lego

(For reference, here is where the title came from)

Today got me thinking about storytelling and my creativity more than usual. Part of it is because I finished reading The Outsider, and I’ve been thinking about it as a manual that may somehow contain the key to my salvation, to the liberation of my energies.

I am constantly haunted by the feeling that I have something to say, some purpose to fulfil, some important thing that I should be doing and I am not. Sometimes I fear that I’m actually empty and I’m just making it all up. I know I’m not, but sometimes I still do.

I know the main thing keeping me down is my own self-hate. I can’t muster even a tiny bit of self-respect, and I keep letting myself down on a daily basis. There’s other serious obstacles, like dispersal of energy, but I think my self-hate is the biggest one, as it colours everything I do. There’s always an “I’m not good enough, I’ll never be good enough” background to my actions, the more so the more they matter.

I honestly don’t know why I still try to do so many things. I guess that there’s a complementary instinct, one that asserts: “This is not how things should be, this is all wrong, I could should be so much better than this, I should be great”. It’s weak, but it’s obviously there, as a sort of standard that I always fall short of, but that I strongly feel as my own.

I wish I could play with Lego, but I can’t. My parents never bought me such toys, they always bought me toys with a very strong sense of how they should be played, the one and only way; videogames being an excellent example of it. I can lament the lack of intellectual, creative and emotional fostering I had as a kid under many angles, but today this one stroke me as particularly relevant.

Lego are more of a tool to play with, than a game in themselves. You don’t play Lego, but Lego allow you to play, to create your own game. And creation, from scratch, just based on my fancy, is something I never learned. I remember being in primary school and already thinking that I didn’t have anything to say, and if I had, no one was interested in it anyway. I knew the correct answer to most questions, but I didn’t know my answer to questions to which right and wrong didn’t really apply.

If I imagine myself playing with Lego now, I think I would fail out of lack of self-respect. Not because I’m playing a kids’ game, but out of lack of respect for myself as a narrator, as a creator of an imaginative world. I wouldn’t feel up to the task, without any instructions to follow: self expression? I’d feel nervous, scared, as if I had nothing to express, as if I was nothing.

I wish I could play with Lego, and make up a crappy story just because I can, just because that’s what the pieces allow me to do, even if it doesn’t make sense, just because it’s fun in the moment, even if it has no ulterior significance. Just because it’s for me and I’m having fun with my own imagination.

Even if it’s far from my view of art, I would just like to feel liberated.

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Lost Mind, Lost Soul: A Diary Of a Sickness (Pt. 6)

I feel frustrated. I feel nervous. I feel angry, and disappointed.

Today has been a collection of little failures, like most other days. Many little things, like bricks building that massive wall that has been holding me back for years, stuck in the same place, in the same apathy, in the same mediocrity.

I started by waking up late, despite my determination not to do so, and the alarm clock. Then I did that thing of studying without actually studying, your head hovering over the book and your mind elsewhere. I must have done 3 -4 pages in a couple of hours, while I wasted my time writing stupid comments on RPS about things I’ll have forgotten in a week. Then I realized I was doing this, and I told myself I’d have skipped lunch, and spent the time making up for what I didn’t study. (Not that it would matter: even if I studied 25 hours a day, I’d still probably feel that I wasn’t doing enough) Instead what I did was, eat before lunch AND eat lunch just an hour later. Then I took a shower, and I didn’t do any of the things I planned to do before that (epilation, voice feminization exercises etc) because I’m scared. I don’t know what I’m scared of, probably that I’ll take away some of the reasons why I’m miserable. I also wanted to go look for a beauty-centre to make my facial hair disappear, and I won’t do that either because I’m scared.

Failures fill my every day, and people don’t see them, because they don’t know what I’m not doing, but I see them, and they matter, and they keep me stuck, and the least I could do is feel angry. No, not angry, infuriated.

I write this here, now, in hope that it will help me be true to my word. I will not eat anything for 24 hours, counting from when I last ate, about an hour ago.

It’s punishment, but it’s not just that. It’s arbitrary discipline, and it doesn’t matter how arbitrary it is, because it is first and foremost an assertion of will. I need to prove that, if I decide to do something, I can and will do it.

I will probably be looking to systematize this kind of thing, as well as making it more severe and forcing myself to do more, in terms of concrete actions. I can’t just keep talking, I need to do things. I need to know that I’m not hopeless.

Lost Mind, Lost Soul: A Diary Of a Sickness (Pt. 5)

More than 3 months after my last post, I come back to dust off this blog, with the same old hope that I may be more constant with it. Actually, I have to admit the recent increase in likes and comments has helped setting my mind on it again, although I never really forgotten about it.

Things are definitely better. Better, not good. I think this is how I was hoping to feel by July, on my way to recovering for university. That year is gone, and the only thing I can do is make these months count the way they are.

The phobia is mostly gone. The sensation I have is that it’s only temporarily gone, because there are next to no insects with the winter’s cold. I’m doing my best to use this anxiety-free time I have to work on everything. The depression that was hidden beyond the anxiety is showing itself, though, with all its charge of sadness, self-contempt, lack of will, feeling of absolute, universal loneliness.

I’m noticing a few things, as I’m writing. One is that I’m not used to writing anymore. For some reason, I lost all my e-pen friends, so I haven’t written a word (besides some simple IM chatting, and note-taking – more on that later) effectively since my last post. But it’s not just rustiness in word-choice or syntax: I have trouble identifying my intents, thoughts and desires with lexicon and then organizing them in sentences. It’s not simply a linguistic problem, it’s psychological confusion (see the title of this diary), although I’m sure more writing would certainly help with it. It’s a subtle feeling in everyday life, at the same time a sense of many contrasting thoughts and a lack of a clear dominant direction.

I’m also noticing how I repeated twice in two paragraphs that I’m doing my best with what I have; which feels a lot like compensation for feeling guilty that I’m not, and afraid that I will not. With my main psychologist, it always feels like every session is very productive and useful, like I’m always making some kind of progress. (I may try to write short follow-ups to those sessions, as a way to encourage more regular posting) But, I’ve started seeing a psychologist specialized in gender identity in September, and I can’t recall one question she asked me that is somehow related to gender identity. Still, while that may be her fault, I haven’t made any progress in that area by myself either. I tried, at times, but everything scares me so much. For instance, I had started studying voice feminization techniques, but they look so hard, and I get discouraged easily these days. I’m sure I would start seeing some results if I just tried an hour a day for a couple of weeks, but when, at day 2, I start thinking I’m worthless and I’ll never get anywhere with it, or with anything else, I just get depressed. I know I should endure it. I feel so damn guilty.

Other things are better, though. The last couple of weeks I’ve studied almost every day, played the guitar often and read as much. I’ve been exposed to some interesting ideas, from Colin Wilson’s The Outsider to the plot of Metal Gear Solid 2, just to mention the very last ones, and it’s exciting, nothing less. This is definitely the side of my life that is progressing better. It was also the only part of my life that was remotely successful, before all this happened. Feels like ages ago, honestly. One of my major problems, though, was that I had this, and nothing else.

I’m still incredibly lonely. My best friend is also my only friend,  and she does her best by seeing me every week, and it’s not her fault, but for me it’s not enough. I still have no satisfying outlet to discuss ideas, exchange thoughts, comments on random stuff, jokes, or simply to give and receive affection in any way that feels meaningful. Even if I started posting more, I feel it would be just a second rate solution to only a few of these problems. I spend 6 and a half days every week in my room, mostly alone, so much so that when my father is around it feels a bit awkward.

My impression is that I’m recovering from the major crisis, and in doing so I’m going back to how I was before everything happened. Which was, tautologically, the same situation that made me develop the phobia as a defence in the first place. The true process of getting better has yet to start.