Life doesn’t always go where you thought it would; it tends, at length, not to match the image that you have of yourself.
A year ago at this time, cracks were showing, but I could still point to wife and children and home as “what my life is, who I am,” and there was a kind of empirical solidity to it.
Now those things are all in flux, and without the empirical details to guide identification, I continually feel as though I am a stranger in my life. Is this who I am? Is this where I live? “Coming home” has become essentially equivalent to “going numb” and if someone were to ask me to describe myself, I’d struggle to answer, suddenly.
— § —
Starting in July, I couldn’t type for a long time. I could only write. I filled countless handwritten pages in an attempt to somehow write reality, my life situation, and myself into submission. It didn’t really work. The benefits are unclear, though at the same time I don’t doubt that in some way, there were benefits.
In late October, as circumstances evolved, I stopped thinking altogether. There was nothing but living, nothing but the moment. No typing or writing of any kind.
As December arrived and has now given way to January, I find that things have inverted themselves. I am typing again, typing a great deal, here and elsewhere. The handwriting? I can’t. I simply can’t do it. I can’t even look at a pen or at my notebooks. There is a kind of half-repressed disgust and terror that prevents me from even going near them.
— § —
It is unclear to me whether I am coping well or coping poorly. I suppose that depends on what my goals are.
— § —
“Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?”
“That depends a good deal on where you want to get to.”
“I don’t much care where—”
“Then it doesn’t matter which way you go.”