(misc) 1_2

When I do think back to my past periods of intense writing and inspiration- and compare it to my situation now, there does seem to be a key difference. That being a difference in my overall mood and emotions. The ‘depression’ and ‘anxiety’ I used to feel as a student and younger adult has for the most part, disappeared. The frequency in which I feel ‘down’ has also decreased massively. 

Let’s explore. 

… In sixth form I was desperately in love with everyone and absolutely desperate for a girlfriend or some kind of mutual sexual feelings with another girl. I’d almost literally fall in love with any girl I shared any kind of frequent conversation with. I had so much pent up (late) teenage sexual frustration. Of course they were completely unrequited and ridiculous fantasies, but fuel… writing fuel. I was able to buy into the loveless and hopelessly romantic stereotype- complimented by my love and adoration for Morrissey’s lyricism, and how cool it seemed to just be helplessly miserable. This was a kind of personality I’d built for myself around writing. I was in a paradox; I wanted to be loved or in love but, it’s almost as like I ‘wanted' to be miserable and a hopeless romantic.  

… At university I ‘was’ miserable. For a while I still had those exact same feelings above. Falling in love at every twist and turn, buying even more into the romanticism of being miserable and ‘depressed’. Although I didn’t actually get back into writing again until my final year of university when I was in a relationship. On the surface I was happy, in a mutual and loving relationship with the Korean girlfriend. Yet deep down was that self loathing. I hadn’t accepted it yet, but I’d already started to feel absolute hate for her and our relationship. She was binding and controlling- had to know where and what I was doing, who I was with twenty four-seven. This feeling was something I was too scared to express openly (even to myself), so I think it manifested itself as inspiration. Suddenly I was writing again as furiously as I was at sixth-form. Again, everything seemed to inspire words out of me- music, a Haruki Murakami book cover. I really was writing a lot again.

… Jump forwards to around halfway through my first year living in Japan. There was still the loathing and hatred for my toxic relationship that had doubled, even quadrupled in size. Alone in my room I felt constantly depressed, lonely and anxious. Her clingy and controlling nature over me, even over a long distance relationship pushed me into such anxiety. I was subconsciously and constantly looking for an escape- be that vulgar relationships with girls online, or constantly wanting to meet someone new, in the hope I’ll find an excuse and some kind of happiness (I guess). This again manifested into some really intense and vulgar examples of writing that perfectly mirrored the awful feelings inside my own head. 

Writing for me had always started from feelings of loneliness, sadness, ‘depression’ and feeling down right miserable. It was something I was able to mold into a kind of personality, something to hide behind; or a way to let out how I was really feeling inside. It sounds utterly cliche and ridiculous, but perhaps art really does come from the ugliness we feel inside. Or perhaps art and writing really is just therapy.