#this is but a small sampling theres. so many more doodles that i just. dont post >_< ) | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

brocolirose · 5 years

Text

Written clutter

Can’t help taking notes everywhere. I must have a similar disease as my mother, who would write on any surface at hand—only I’m very anal about what I write on, like I follow an etiquette of note-taking. Of course it’s in reaction to her being so sprawling and invasive. For example, I don’t write on furniture (though I will sometimes doodle with erasable pencils), nor do I write on anything that belongs to somebody else (she drove me mad with her writing on my belongings), or that I am likely to pass onto somebody else in the future.

So I keep notebooks. I have a bunch of sketchbooks for my doodles, but when it comes to writing I currently have a diary, a BuJo (bullet journal), a notebook for miscellany (like foreign lyrics, notes on videos encompassing a wide variety of topics, random brain vomits...), and I’ve even started a small pocket-sized notebook for vlog ideas. But I also have my Notes application (I’ve quit Evernote because it’s quite a pain, and so ugly), .txt and .rtf files born in TextEdit or Notepad, and my blogs (though I must admit the latter I’ve barely used in the last few years) — and that is not even including all the walls of text I’ve birthed on Facebook, whether in posts or comments, over the span of a decade.

While I wish all of this matter could be reviewed, recouped—while I wish it would all amount to something, I can’t deny that right now it’s only clutter. I just don’t have the mental bandwidth, the energy, the focus to make anything of it. I just brain-vomit, day after day, probably going round in circles. People say I write well, but I have no idea what I would write about. In the end writing is the conveyor of a message: those who bear a strong message are more likely to make a compelling read than a more flourishy vacuity. I don’t feel like I have anything to say. I’m a busy shell, a very empty echo chamber playing the same disconnected thought samples, completely over the place, abuzz, without direction or harmony.

My latest idea, as I’ve hinted above, was to vlog. It’s an attempt to log this time of my life, to sum up everything I’m thinking and feeling. But again, besides rambling, I’m having trouble figuring out what I would talk about, or do and show. Everything’s a mess, a big ball of converging circumstances triggering confusing emotions and thoughts, and by the time I’ve managed to pull out one thread to weave into coherence, a dozen more have appeared, competing for my attention.

It’s a race against time, and against my humanity. My limitations. Every day is a race against my basic needs, and while I want to do things, there’s the shadow of everyday living breathing down my neck. I have to properly sleep and feed myself, I have to mind my hygiene and my social life, lest I fall apart (more than the usual, I mean). And when I do get the bulk of these things out of the way, then I’m faced with the noise again, at full volume. Instead of channeling it, I find myself turning away from it. I jot it down and do something else. Something unrelated; something unrelevant. Even with all the time in the world and more energy, I’m motionless.

Logging and tracking and taking notes and learning... can only do so much. Soon enough it’s all clutter, all a distraction, all a bandage over my oozing brain.

I repeatedly told my therapist I feel frustrated with how long this recovery thing is taking. And I feel like some things are getting worse rather than better. As she replied, recovery is comparable to tidying a cluttered room: it takes the time it takes, and it often gets worse before it gets better. That trying to rush it, or to bypass it, often makes things much worse. Despite wanting clarity and serenity, it seems I can’t help but exteriorize, pile up the crap, and also feel anguished about it. I write down too many things for me to process later on. I have multiple outlets, but none to grant me the quiet I crave. And all of that is only circling the actual problems—it’s a distraction.

I’m in a glass maze; it’s like a tower, but set as a Moëbius strip; I’m running both up and down, and in circles, always aware of where I want to go, on some other side that I can’t find—that isn’t there.

#diary #brain vomit #depression #therapy #writing #notes

0 notes