So… life has been lifing. I make a point of never lying on the internet, but over the last few weeks I’ve been unable to disclose the truth in its entirety. So I’ve not said anything at all.
Things in my life took a turn. Hard left. Do you know when something happens and everything you thought you knew just kind of collapses? Everything you believed about the world and the people in it suddenly all seems hopeless and ridiculous and you start asking yourself “what the fuck is the point?” It’s kind of been like that. And I’m not trying to end myself or anything. I’m just deflated. I’m trying to find the sparkle and I keep coming up short.
I always say write like nobody’s watching. But they are though.
And I don’t usually take much issue with people watching me bleed but there’s been a fucking haemorrhage. And I’m not the only one bleeding. So I can’t say anything. Not yet anyway. What I can tell you is that it’s been that all-encompassing, too tired to think kind of drama. Not the fun kind. Sometimes the issue with making myself the subject of my work is that the writing becomes self-aware. There are consequences to unravelling the details in real time. I'm not just telling the story. I'm affecting it.
So I’ll wait for the events of my life to scab before I even attempt to pick at them in front of an audience.
I did want to write about something else entirely. I tried. But it feels reductive.
Do you wanna know what I hate about being a real grown up? You can’t just fuck up for fun anymore. I used to love doing things for the plot. Something would happen and I’d pivot and jump. Even if it all ended in catastrophe, at least I did something. At least I had an exciting story.
I used to do cocaine and kiss strangers. I used to fall in love hard and often. So often.
And then I went sober and turned thirty and I don’t do any of that anymore. I like my peace. I do. I prefer it. But… sometimes I just have this urge to do something reckless and ridiculous. Just a tiny bit. Not enough to blow up my life. Just something big enough to make my stomach squirm with that naughty feeling. A distraction. Silly. But I wouldn’t even know where to start. I guess what I’m grappling with right now is how I can maintain peace and self-preservation without being a complete and total bore to myself. I never just blow off steam.
I used to be faced with naughty, scary, silly situations all the time and I’d say “fuck it” and jump in with both feet. I don’t do that anymore. I don’t even want to do that stuff anymore. I used to fly across the world regularly to meet strangers. Last month I missed a flight to LA because I couldn’t be bothered with the headache.
I’m in a funk.
I wake up most days and do my hair and makeup immaculately because that’s just what I do. Even if nobody will see me. Because I’m a fucking adult. I wear matching lingerie and stockings. And I wear it for nobody but myself. I wear it because I’m a grown up and that’s what nice grown up ladies do (and stockings are actually way comfier than tights.) And I’d love to tell you that it’s empowering and sexy just doing these things for me but let me tell you a secret. Sometimes I get home, undress and sigh at myself.
I used to be so promiscuous and outrageous. An act of rebellion for me now would be to go out with a strand of hair out of place and mismatched socks on. I’m a fucking Stepford.
I am becoming the woman I’ve always wanted to be and yet, I didn’t realise I’d be so freaking bored. And perhaps I’m having an existential fucking crisis. Because I look like the woman I wanted to be. I sound like her and I act like her. But it’s not quite right.
Nobody tells you this part when you’re younger. They tell you about heartbreak and chaos and mistakes, but nobody warns you about what comes after you finally get your shit together. Where everything is technically fine and yet you’re staring out the window of a beautiful place wondering if this is really it. Not unhappy. Just oddly unstimulated by your own stability.
I’m glad I’m no longer as stupid as I once was but the nonsense sure kept my mind (and my hands) busy.
But I really don’t want to live like I did in my twenties. I couldn’t if I tried.
I’m not yearning. I’m not fancying. I’m not fucking for sport. I am alone but I’m not lonely.
I’m breathing and working and loving and cooking and smiling and going to bed really fucking early. And that’s amazing. I’m so grateful. My life is beautiful. But I steal things from nice establishments to get a taste of my old naughtiness. Never from shops. It’s more like… I just paid an extortionate amount for this mocktail and I like the glass it came in so I’m taking it with me. Or I like that ashtray. Nobody will miss it.
I was never a klepto before. But now my house is full of salt and pepper shakers, mugs, trays, butter dishes. All stolen. I am genuinely considering taking up more petty crimes just to feel more of that thrill. (I briefly considered escalating to small acts of vandalism but could see that getting out of hand fast.)
I usually like to end my diary entries with some kind of triumphant conclusion or lesson. But I don’t know what any of this means yet.
Some stories need distance before they become language.
See you next time in the confessional,
Blithe x
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