I miss going to the pool.
I managed the entire winter not missing it at all, not even thinking of the lack, but last two weeks I’ve felt very out of my balance point. There’s a lot of anxiety and even suicidial ideation. At the same time, it feels foreign. It is not me that thinks or feels it, but it is an imbalance, a disease outside of my identity. This makes it a little easier to handle. You can dismiss it because it has little personal source. You can think of it as a very bad viral infection that will go away by next week.
Meanwhile. I got very excited about filming a little video story. It started as I saw a scene in a music video that made me go “that’s so me!”. Then I thought I’ll restage it for a laugh. Then I thought: why just that part, I’ll do it longer. Followed by: I’ll do it as best as I possibly can and do a whole story, with costumes and everything. I don’t know how to film and edit, of course, but it’ll be fun.
It was enlightening to realise some things in relation to it. In spite of my excitement, I kept trying to veto this plan. It’s going to take a lot of resource, in time, some in money, but mostly time. I have better things to put my energy into. I have to write to get better at it. I have to read to get better at writing. I can’t be dillydallying. This is silly.
Then again. Every moment of it, from planning my outfits to camera angles, I’d be in a state of happy flow. I love doing useless things that mean nothing. That don’t lead to anything. That don’t have to be anything but what they are. Also, cosplayers spend a lot of hours on their outfits too. Why can’t I?
I have taken the lightness out of writing for myself. I see it as my only way out. The only thing that could save me that I have any control over. It has become a thing I should do. One of those adult things, responsible things. While dressing up as a footballer or Veronika Lake is childish, silly and irresponsible but really great fun. I figured I’d choose fun and try to learn from it, as it so accidentally landed on my lap.
Writing this, the very bad brain virus is doing its work. I tried to write to escape it a little, without having much to write about. It worried me a little at one point too. If a hormonal imbalance can cause me to have suicidial thoughts while not having been particularly depressed before, suppose it got worse, suppose I was badly depressed beforehand? It’s very annoying, this skinless state where every unsmooth corner hurts and only very soft things are safe. Underneath it I feel my old happy mood though. That’s what makes it feel like a disease. I know it’s a surface thing I just need to go through, not something that had roots or meaning.