I have an
annoying habit of self-psychoanalyzing, even though my qualifications as a
psychoanalyst are, let's just say, in question. Doesn't stop me. Actually, I'm
pretty sure we all do it; I'm just a little more aware of the fact. Anyhoo, I
seem to go through cycles of normalcy, then periods of obsession, and sometimes
mild depression. And by mild, it usually lasts less than a day, but when it
hits, I want to stay in bed and watch Netflix. And nothing will get me out of
bed. We once had flour tortillas for dinner due to this phenomena, and I didn't
even get up to go get them.
As I move ever closer to the stark
landscape of nothingness that is death, I have realized how important work is
to keeping me going, regardless of which point in the cycle I happen to be
experiencing. It forces me to get up, get dressed, interact with others, and be
productive. Yay! I'm a productive member of humanity. When fighting my own
innate resistance, this, along with the desire to get paid, is crucial. So I am
so very thankful I have a 9-to-5. As much as I enjoy writing, it will always be
a hobby for me, being that I lack the discipline and the motivation to commit
to the drudgery that is being an author. Maybe someday that will change. But,
again, I'm getting older, and the probability that I'll change is next to nil.
Even now, I prefer the cold comfort of routine and familiarity. If I go to get
gas, I go to the same gas station, and use the same pump. If I go out to eat, I
go to the same places, sit at the same table and order the same shit. I could
write it off as merely an issue of convenience, but I'd be lying to myself. In
short: we are all doomed to become inflexible, crotchety old bastards.
It's fine. It's normal. People who
survive in this world long enough are entitled to be crotchety.
That being said, a smidge of
unpredictability and surprise might be good for me. It could act as a muse,
provide a little inspiration. Said muse recently appeared in the form of a
friend and has wreaked havoc on my (real) writing. My thinking has become
chaotic, and it remains to be seen if my writing will eventually benefit. But
then again, I would argue with myself, mindful chaos will no doubt be a
catalyst for change. I know I will not willingly abandon my cold comfort, my
love of sameness and predictability.
As long
as I don't fall too far into either obsession or depression, I think I'm good.
There's a fine line, fo sho. I finally realize how close to crazy we all are.
Just a few steps in either direction, and every one of us could be considered a
mental health statistic. I identify now more than ever with
obsessive-compulsives, hoarders, agoraphobics and the like. Only time will tell
which direction I go, but I might just combine the three and shoot for crazy
cat lady. I've always thought cats were awesome (especially when they're in
outer space and have laser eyes) and that I could lead a minimally successful
existence as long as I had a laptop and wifi. Add 60 cats to that, and I'm set.
J. L. Dodd
SWEET!!!
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