Basically, my ability to give a fuck about anything that has ever happened to me broke.
I once held on to the series of disasters that made up the black comedy of my life more closely than I held on to any human relationship. My personal tragedies were what I thought my identity was comprised of, forged by, synonymous with. I have used my bizarre life story as a means of bonding with select people or alternately as a reason why I was incapable of ever truly bonding with anyone. My stories were my crutch. They were my source of drama. They made me feel both perversely unique and innately wretched. They were the simultaneous cause of both my vanity and self-loathing.
Then my whole youth incidentally culminated in one grotesque and veiled event and suddenly I was done with who I had been and most of the things I thought I knew. I was done with the chaos I was comfortable in.
So I went and the thing most people do when they’re too tired or emotionally exhausted to focus on achieving the thing they dream of doing: I got a job in fashion. I distracted myself by planning my outfits rather than when I would write a book or give up on life. I dreamed about my savings account. About dental insurance. Taking a break from everything I found authentically important has been a surprising relief. I mistook what I pegged as mundane for an enemy, when in fact it has served me well as another outlet for my escapist tendencies.
Writing the way i used to write isn’t really possible now. I used to write sort of shamefully from behind some vague sadness never directly mentioned. Since I’m no longer sad or embarrassed, there is a definite shift in my narrative voice.
Also, I’m happy.
And since I used to write to make sense of what made me sad, a sort of quiet prevails at last.