A few days ago as I spoke to my significant other about titling our seemingly monogamous relationship, he said something utterly unsettling. “How can you invest time in someone, when you don’t invest time on yourself? What about your dreams of becoming a writer, artist, are you planning on making those dreams into reality?”
Ultimately I’d envisioned more positive results; I didn’t expect the conversation to head into this arena of discomfort, after all, we’d been dating for a few months now—three to be exact—I hadn’t considered this alternate result, least to say his objection . Although factual, it was difficult digesting his genuine interest in seeing me advance. As I stood before him I could feel my heart sopping down my shirt, down my pants and finally sauced on the floor in a wholesome pool of disappointment.
Feeling slightly rejected I got defensive and assumed he wasn’t interested enough to get serious. After I conveyed this to him, he added “I just want to make sure you can finish what you start” Again I felt mixtures of pain and comprehension. I understood him: well established guy seeking equal. Although hurt I couldn’t pretend like it wasn’t true, I did forget about my own personal wants and needs.
The truth: once again, I was applying focus on a relationship oppose to completing the unfinished novel that’s been sitting on my word-processor. Honestly this isn’t voluntary, maybe a system I adapted that I put into practice without realizing it. Instead of feeling sorry for myself, I decided to be proactive and dissect this truth.
Putting things into perspective: I never resigned the idea of wanting to be a writer. I might have given-up numerous times, but never stopped thinking of the possibilities of ever reaching that platform. A wise man once said: “Most people operate on autopilot, doing what comes naturally. They get into a comfort zone of average performance, and seldom question their behavior.” –BT
How did I come to this? I’d left my creativeness in the backburner with little regard to my future. I'd been neglecting my first true love, writing. I felt foolish.
"How can you invest time in someone when you don't even invest time on yourself" Again his words echoed in my head. “He’s right” I agreed as if it were the first time I’d acknowledge this. In my mind I spoke to myself, and saw all the goals I’ve pushed aside. The truth was, I didn’t know where or how to start. I know my writing needs work but sometimes it feels like I could focus on this problem for years with no solution. I try reading books but end up reading the wrong books—books that don’t infuse growth.
I trace back time remembering all the bad habits I’d acquired -- procrastination…laziness…--all relatively bad. When did I stop dreaming? Had the meltdowns of society changed me into the person I am today? I admit giving up on my dreams and pretending to be content with the idea of being a failure. I follow my weekly routine feeling exasperated at the end, wasting energy on the trivial, like a hamster running endlessly on a wheel—aimless into a path of no gratification.
Oddly I thought about all the famous women who’d left their mark in history; women who’d fallen head over heels in love with their careers. They’d managed accomplishing everything they’d sought after, contributing their talents and handwork to society, I admire and applaud them for being so fierce with their endeavors. By acknowledging this I soon realized that I’ve partaken in the art of self deprivation, denying myself brain-food, advancement and the ability to broaden my horizons! Without knowing, I was limiting my progress with little concern to the future.
It’s like I’d become part of a statistic, a percentage of Americans’ who fall under the category of the unhappy. That fraction that hates their jobs, that don’t dream nor wish upon a start, who are drowning in their self made misery, the homeless, void of ambitions, who view life as a big party of drugs and pantheism, who drink their troubles away, who change their goals according to their mood, unstable and hopeless. Somewhere in between, I fit in that category.
Certainly I am disappointed with this barnstorm. So before the malice seeps out I forced this stubborn mind of mine to think optimistically. To curb all negative feelings into a solution. A solution bound to help achieve my goals and broaden my horizons. Knowing is half the battle! What's the point of identifying the problem when you don't make attempts to find a solution?
Enters the Internet…
There awaited a writing class pending for my registration. I’d been contemplating registering due to finances. I frowned at the price, again--$645 for 15 sessions--but encouraged myself to save for the class that will soon change my life, because that's what its going to do, change it. Instantly I felt motivated, exhilarated, excited about my goals again! Excited about ME again.
Days later, my significant other introduced me to Daniel Quin’s, Ishmael…I continue blossoming.
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