a little bit louder; a little bit worse.

I just feel like I need to wordvomit this out (because that’s what it feels like when these moods come on me, it feels like I need to get it out of me, like keeping it in is impossible), as I open up drafts in my emails to write audition/consideration requests I probably will just close and forget about.

Does this happen every winter? Sometimes I feel like it does: looking at my blog archives, it seems my postings drop off considerably during the colder months – I have something to write about leading up to December (or, at least I have in the past) and then I hibernate for the winter.

It’s all the same, always; it’s always the same things that I sit and ruminate on during the short grey-light days of winter. My weight, my face, my proportions. My teeth, my height, my hair, the way my nostrils flare out and my lips have gotten thinner as I’ve gotten older. (Things I can only change so much.) The fact that it’s been so long since I last performed in front of people that I’ve forgotten what it was like. That now, when I go to an audition, they can sense the awkwardness in me, on me; the fear and the anxiety that go along with performing layered on top of the fear and anxiety of being out in front of people. That maybe I lost whatever I used to have: the spark of talent blinked out. That maybe I never really had it to begin with. That it was as I feared, I was only good enough to get so far and no further. That I don’t have anything special about me to set me apart. I am not beautiful. I am not especially talented.  I have not cultivated something original in myself that no-one else has.  I am not indispensable. I am not one-of-a-kind.  There is no need of me.

That maybe I get one good thing – one perfect thing – in this life, and it’s too much to ask to be able to do what I love, too. I am spoiled and ungrateful. If I wanted to be able to do what I loved, I should have forfeited being with the man that I love. I get one thing and I picked it already and I should accept that and realize I’m going to spend the rest of my life behind a desk and look for fulfillment elsewhere.

Even my despair is the despair of so many others. I don’t have my own pain. The pain that I do have, I am not worthy to bear or to claim. What right do I have to be sad? What right do I have to be upset or despairing when I am fed and clothed and warm and loved? I am not worthy of my own pain.

This is why I don’t write about it anymore. It’s all the same, over and over, always. You’ve all heard it before. Eighty-seventh verse, same as the first. A little bit louder, a little bit worse.

I’ve been off the internet mainly so that I can think about these things and not avoid them, as I’d been doing. The endless parade of pictures and music and beauty and others’ successes and triumphs and day to day struggles distracts me from my own life. I needed to remember this about my own life.

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