Throughout the day, I tried to trace back my mood, this emotional rut I’d found myself stuck in. I tried with all the might I could muster to pinpoint what triggered it or in the very least where it all started.
Idiots on the road on the way to work? Work itself? What was it?
I had been taking Jordan Peterson’s breakfast advice for anxiety: wake up at the same time every day and have bacon and eggs. I had been following the breath in meditation for fifteen minutes every morning. I’d smoked pot. I had jerked off life a madman this weekend in hopes of exorcising the sexual frustration that had been rising to a fever pitch the week before. I had been taking sleeping pills in an effort to achieve sufficient downtime.
Even so, I had ended up like this, and without an identifiable cause. I felt like a sore tooth being tongued constantly by the worlds within and around me. I felt depressed and resentful. Trapped and starved in some way.
Eventually I considered what I have occasionally considered: we feel emotions, we find ourselves in a mood, and then we just invent the reasons. Weave our justifications. In actuality, maybe emotions and moods just happen. They arrive like coatracks upon which we hang our rationalized causes.
Then again: I’ve worked in this job I hate for 14 years, I haven’t been laid in seven years, I’m a year away from forty and I feel ashamed, self-loathing, and constantly fight against my own homelessness and frustration in the face of that, particularly lately.
On break, I couldn’t focus or get absorbed in what I was reading, which was Rupert Sheldrake’s book, nor could I get involved in writing aspects of my book that I’m working on for the thousandth time. Even when I turned my inner eye and feelers towards my mood itself, I found myself psychologically constipated, unable to express it sufficiently. I tried to write a poem so many times that day, but my words just didn’t move me along.
As a matter of fact the last few days, despite the fact that I kept trying, all my poetry sucked, anything I wrote fell flat, any attempt at artwork left me feeling without a shred of talent. Any light I had been able to hold onto in the darkness of my life seemed to have burnt out like a bulb. Still waters run deep, perhaps, but I was stuck on the surface, unable to break what seemed to be an impenetrable sheet of stubborn ice. I felt empty, yet full, which sounds stupid, but even now, in the wake, that seems like an honest way of articulating it. I felt frantic, frustrated and depleted. Passionless and agitated. Nothing grabbed or moved me. Nothing satisfied.
At the end of the day, I was bitching to a manager about how, now that we close at eleven, people don’t seem to plan ahead. There’s no logic to what they do, no foresight or preparation, which is why we never get out by midnight. I find myself judging them and holding it in until it erupts in the form of biting remarks to people or embittered rants.
I’m not a manager or any legitimate form of authority, so I have no right. I know that. I wish my reason would overpower my emotions, but emotions always seem to win the fucking war.
When I got home, nothing I watched moved or inspired me. I took a hit off a bowl, tried to read the book again but couldn’t fall in. Then got the urge to read The Portable Jung again, and it’s been some time. Somehow, that did it. I watched some videos regarding reincarnation on YouTube a bit later, and I fell in the groove there, too. Finally.
What the fuck is my problem?