But thanks for thinking it.
What I'm talking about here is an odd discovery about myself. Just recently, I've happened upon a strange set of buried ideologies and beliefs ingrained within me that have been hindering me my whole life.
Here I am approaching 29 years of age, and I'm only now seeing this in myself.
And what is this discovery of mine that's holding me back so?
I'm beginning to see that almost throughout my entire existence, at least my adult existence, I've never made 'enjoying my life' a priority.
It's as if I never cared, or it just didn't matter.
Isn't that weird?
What kind of a person avoids being happy in everyday life?
A broken one, that's what.
WHEN IS A HOUSE NOT A HOME?
When it's ajar...
In the nearly two years of living at my apartment, I've never taken the time, nor cared to make it my home. It's always just been "the place that I stay".
And there's quite a difference.
Why would I not want the place I spend most of my time to reflect the person I am? Why would I not want to make it a sanctuary for enjoyment and relaxation, for inspiration and social interaction?
Why indeed.
Everyone else's apartments are decorated and cozy feeling. A representation of the people they are. An inviting friendly atmosphere that says "sit down, and spend some time here".
My apartment?
"God there's a lot of shit on the ground! How long have those dishes been sitting there? This room looks like shit. Don't even see the bathroom. Get out of here as soon as you can."
And what has been the main source of the junk and space-taking in my place?
My studio stuff. Keyboards, computers, cables, mics, software boxes, etc. That's what takes up the room. Not anything resembling a traditional, welcoming home, or a place others would want to live.
No couches, no TV, nothing on my walls, nowhere to hang out, nowhere to eat.
What does that say about me?
Soon. One more story first.
THE REVERSE 90/10 PHILOSOPHY
Almost eight years ago I was in the market for a new automated transportation unit.
The car I was coming from was very me, and I loved driving it.
A dying 1984 Volkswagen Rabbit convertible, white on white. It was awesome. I really loved that car.
But now that she was on her death... bed (what do cars lay on when dying figuratively?), I needed a new A to B machine.
Instead of finding another cute, small, fun car that reflected my personality, I ended up getting a bulky, gas-guzzling Ford Explorer.
So why did I get it?
Practicality. But offset practicality, which I did not see until later.
At the time, I live in the mountains, and winters can be pretty treacherous during snow storms, so I needed a vehicle with four wheel drive.
Check.
I also was playing shows with other bands (and planning on eventually playing my own) and felt guilty that I had the most equipment to bring (drums), and had the smallest car (the Rabbit), leaving everyone else to transport my stuff.
So I also wanted something that could carry drums and amps and the like.
Check.
And these things are fine reasons to get this car... assuming I drove on ice and hauled equipment the majority of the year.
Which I didn't.
Later I realized that I was buying the car for the things I did only 10% of the time. The remaining 90% of the time the "Exploder" becomes a needless waste of materials, an armored tank that chugs fuel, takes up too much space in a parking lot, and simply gets me to my destination.
And I hate driving it. In fact, I hate driving in general. And all because of this very un-me automobile.
Perhaps I could apply this story and observation to my life in general somehow?
SO WHERE HAS THE FOCUS BEEN?
Those may seem like disparate stories of random things, but they are just two outward examples of how I've acted in regards to, and viewed my everyday life.
As I mentioned before, I place a huge emphasis on things few people seem to care about:
Creativity.
Art (in the broad sense).
Music.
Philosophy.
My personal projects have defined who I am for years now (see: "The Depression Panacea"). I don't exist outside the projects, I am the projects. All the rest of the things I do (which probably make up about 80 to 90% of my waking existence) I frown upon, as if that part is not really living. It doesn't count.
It's like I have not allowed myself to enjoy anything outside of doing my creative projects.
I'm taking the biggest chunk of my life and writing it off as irrelevant, as compared to the creation of my self-indulgent art.
And where does that leave me?
Triumphant and elated?
...Not so much.
How about unhappy. Lonely. Confused. Depressed.
I thought I was supposed to feel so fulfilled, so accomplished and so satisfied?
HOW DID I GET HERE?
Looking around me and my life as if for the first time, I wonder how I got here.
The only way it makes any sense at all is that I must have lost track of things.
Life happened to me. Generic, but that's how it feels right?
Obviously I wouldn't do this to myself on purpose right?
Well, maybe not so obviously...
Because after some thought I came to a crazy revelation:
I have intentionally created the place in life I am currently at.
What?!
Why? How? Sentence fragment?
As a teenager, being more prone to drama and flights of emotional fancy, I would imagine my life in the future with music, and myself as the biography-worthy tormented artist type.
A person who would purposely sabotage his chances for happiness so that he could be inspired to write the next amazing piece of music. A person who would literally compromise his whole life for the art.
Why?
It felt.
It had energy.
It was dramatic and interesting.
People would want to read about that character, and make movies based around him. He was a living tragedy, but one who also created many beautiful things that touched people.
At the time, that was the person I aspired to be. One who was perpetually unhappy, but used that emotion for (potentially) brilliant pieces of art and music.
And subconsciously I've held that vision intact. I have, consciously or not, followed that path to its semi-logical conclusion.
Here.
I did this.
And I'm still doing it today.
But now something's changed...
A NEW VOICE
In the last year I've been hearing faint whispers in my subconscious.
(No, don't worry, not real voices. These are metaphorical, you know, to tell a better story right now... you know? C'mon...)
In a way it's nothing new, as my inner heartbeat pulses the same self-sabotaging way it always has.
But this is different.
Something is odd.
A new inner voice has entered the stage. A strange new notion that seems almost absurd and at the same time, immensely attractive.
It runs in stark opposition to my old voice that preached the gospel of the lonely, depressed, yet creative artist persona. It's a voice that tells me that I want to...
... I want to...
...*gulp*
.... enjoy my life.
THE ROADBLOCKS OF RATIONALIZATION
"What?!? Are you insane?!?!?
You can't enjoy your life. You're incapable!
If you suddenly become happy, you'll lose all of the power and inspiration and will only be able to write stupid happy songs!!
Think of it!!
One four five chord patterns all over the place. Happy lyrics!! Just like in Kids In The Hall: Brain Candy. Do you want to write 'Happiness Pie'?
Of course you don't!
Your art will go down hill, and you will become boring, dull, and uninteresting. Everything that makes you unique will shrivel up and die!
You will become normal!
NORMAL!!"
And so goes my brain.
I've created these reasons in my mind of why I'm justified to live an unhappy existence, why I should never make my personal life a priority, why I should be alone, why I can only be a stereotypical artist, et cetera.
Are they valid?
Do they have any basis in reality?
I'm not sure.
I've always associated my personal happiness in regular life, with the death of my creative inspiration. No evidence really, only random stories I've heard about people who used to create and don't, now that they have a family or a career.
I've also felt that I don't deserve to be happy, or perhaps that I am literally incapable of achieving such a goal, as if it is not part of my neural chemistry.
But it does sound rather silly when I say it out loud. Really? I can't write anything emotional, or be creative if I enjoy more of my daily life? Despite a few examples of the negative, I actually know people directly who have a good personal life, and can still be creative just fine.
And, no, they don't only make happy things.
So does that mean that I'm just rationalizing? Is there a chance for me to WANT to be alive, and still have the inspiration to create the things I'm passionate about?
What a startling new idea!
MAKING A CHANGE
So here I am.
Going against over a decade of subconscious inner mantra that says I cannot be happy, and if I could, I shouldn't. That my creativity is more important than enjoying the one life I most likely have to exist in.
"So are you giving up on your life as a creatively focused person?"
No.
Creativity will always be a part of me, and changing my life slowly to accommodate new priorities is in no way an 'either or' switch. It's about being a little more balanced. Both can be done at the same time.
At least in theory.
And so I start out on a strange new quest in my life (well, strange for me at least).
Almost three decades into my life I've suddenly realized I want to actually enjoy things.
I'm going to try to focus on my life.
Related blogs:
Your Self-projection Has Potential!
Internal And External Priorities
The Depression Panacea
I Resent Your Happiness
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