The last thing I want is to be a poser. And if I didn’t convey the difficulties as well as the triumphs of this journey, a poser is exactly what I’d be.
I don’t believe I am inspiring – though I do want to. I am not a standard, regardless of how the term is used – a benchmark, or as a flag, a sign, a symbol. I refuse to live up to any expectations other than my own.
After my last blog post, my week devolved. I became addicted to the TV. I got my writing done, sure enough, and I always had the tube shut down an hour before I went to bed… but that just made my bedtime later… and later… and later. The mental diet was shaky – I had no trouble halting negative thoughts toward others, but cleaning up the negative thoughts directed at myself got harder, the thoughts themselves darker.
My writing, which was supposed to be my joy, became work – something I ‘had’ to do, not something I wanted to do. Ditto the index cards, the shapes and colors, reading the Greatest Salesman, my DMP and blueprint builder. I got all the readings done, but they were lifeless; not a service, but a chore. Painful. Required. And the harder I had to work to get everything done, the more I began to dislike it. Where was the effortlessness that had been promised? Why was that mysterious source which never sleeps not giving me the words to say in my articles, posts, and books, so that I could get things done in the hour or two I was giving myself?
I could blame the TV – but it was me who turned it on, and me who couldn’t force myself to turn it off, and me who got sleep-deprived because of it. I could blame what was written on my index cards, pushing the boundaries of my time, pushing me to write in a hurry instead of seeking high-quality posts (which more often than not never got published because they were never ‘right’) – but it was me who chose what to put down on those cards, and it’s me who wants to be able to achieve those things. I could blame the 7-day mental diet for throwing into sharp relief just how negatively I talk at myself – dear god, you’re fat; why are you forcing yourself to follow those cards, that’s stupid, just pick something easier and rewrite them; boy, you must be a weak-willed mook if you can’t even pick up the remote and press the power button! – but if not for that, I wouldn’t know how bad my mental state is and therefore wouldn’t be able to do anything to change that self-loathing attitude. I could blame my upbringing, for being taught that emotions are to be suppressed if not outright eliminated, because they can’t be chosen, nobody chooses how to feel, that’s a ridiculous, juvenile notion! Keep your emotions to yourself, because you don’t want to be the person who wears their heart on their sleeve, people will take advantage of you; stop being so sensitive!
But blame does not serve me. It mght feel better in the short term, but like procrastination, seeking to blame instead of taking responsibility simply pushes the problem onto my future self. And like procrastination, if a person keeps it up for long enough, passing blame instead of fixing the problem creates problems of monumental size. And I’ve had enough of that. Honestly, truly, forgiveness – however hard it is in the short term – makes life soooooo much easier in the long run. And I’m here for the long run, am I not?
What I feel is my choice; anger, love, joy, depression. To believe otherwise is to deny a long-standing conviction that I am responsible for everything I say, do, think, and feel – and if I am responsible, then I can affect what I say, do, think, and feel. And if I can affect it, does that not logically mean it’s under my control and therefore a choice?
I thought about quitting. I won’t say I didn’t. I wanted my ‘life’ back; my leisure time, my indolence, my excuses. After seven weeks, I should ought to have all my future successes set up and be able to relax a little, just let the subconscious take care of everything.
But retraining the mental habits of a lifetime takes longer than a mere seven weeks. And all I did was place stress on several of the good habits I had been building; right now those baby habits are like blood feathers; tiny, fragile, needing care, because if they are broken through rough handling life will bleed out through them.
So this week, I and the various characters living inside my head start over.