Frustrated

Ugh, I have to write another one of these entries…

What the fuck am I doing exactly? Like some dead philosopher said, living an examined life. What the shit does that mean?

I used to see a therapist. This was back in college. I tried cutting my palm for some idiotic reason, and one of the best people I’ve ever met in my life, and one I’m super proud to still call my friend, got me help. That’s how I started seeing a therapist. In the beginning of my sessions, I barely talked. I tried talking, but I felt like I had nothing to say. I knew I needed some help, but I didn’t know how to accept it, I guess. Eventually I started talking. And talking. And talking. And I saw my therapist for about two years, all the way until I graduated. I grew up so much with her, and I almost never think about her. That makes me kind of sad. Last May, when I went back to LA for a few days, I hung out with my friend — the one I mentioned earlier — and we went to the USC campus. I hadn’t been there since I graduated back in 2008. While walking around, I saw my therapist. I didn’t say hi, and at first I didn’t even recognize her. But she recognized me. And neither one of us said a word to each other. We walked by as if we were strangers. It’s kind of sad, but she helped me examine my life and confront my demons head on. That’s how I’ve been living ever since.

I committed myself to write 365 entries. I’m not sure why I did that. I guess I wanted to force myself to confront myself on a daily basis, to ensure I’m living a good life, a life I need to work toward instead of passively living it. Every night I have to sit down and stare at my blank word processor and force myself to think about my day, about having something to say, and I do it. I write it. Recently, though, I’ve been yearning for more time. There have been entries I’ve written I wish I had more time with. Everything you guys are reading are first drafts, and what do we call first drafts? Shitty. I’m not sure if I’ll force myself to satisfy this yearning any time soon, but I just thought I’d reveal that, being as I’m trying to live a more examined life.

Is that pretentious? Am I trying to be something more than I am? I don’t know. Like, honestly, who am I to even try, right? Right? Like, I’m just some guy living in Montana trying to live his life. I have very few friends, with not a one up here in Montana, except for family. I spend all of my time indoors, except for when I need to make money and go to work. Writing fell on my lap during high school because I liked writing action stories. Stories about smart guys doing crazy things to do crime-y things. Then I wanted to be “serious” during college, so I wrote about Buddhism and sci-fi and my family. Now I’ve written a novel and am in the middle of rewriting it. I started the damn thing three years ago, and I’m still working on it. I’m single, alone, and damn sexy. Like seriously guys, I’m super sexy. Insanity is the real deal.

I don’t know where I’m going with any of this. I wrote about frustration a few days ago. I write about designing my life a lot. I try to work hard every day even when it seems like I’m not. I write about my routines a lot because that’s where the work really is. I did over 90 minutes of Insanity today, and I loved every minute of it. My injury from a few days ago no longer exists. I wrote 300+ words in my novel, and now I’m over 23,000 words into it. I eat well every day. I’ve prepared all my own meals every day for months now. I still feel lost, though. I’m not sure what I’m doing, and I’m not sure how much longer I can last writing my shitty first drafts.