TELLING IT LIKE IT IS: I'M NOT THAT SPECIAL

By RENÉ Reyes

ART BY RenÉ Reyes

A ceiling fan spins about 150-200 times in a minute. In comparison to a lazy bastard, that feels like a lot more movement than they ever would do in their lifetime. I fear of how I would feel about myself in a year from now, wondering if those times I stayed in bed till 1 PM were times I could be stretching my brain rather than fighting it. Even while writing this, it doesn’t sound like something I would do. I came across a video of shark napping and swimming at the same time, which sounded to me like the shark being a try-hard, but then I learned that if they don’t continue swimming, they sink to the bottom and die, which I envy because I would have consistent motivation to not die. That would probably be the best type of motivation a person needs, especially whenever they spend most of their time groveling about themselves like I do. 

The reality is, I don’t want to do anything. I resort to drinking and a little bit of a podcast to have in the background when I daydream about fulfilling goals to motivate myself in that present moment, but it never grows into something tangible. In real life, however, being uplifting around my peers only seems to happen whenever I pick up the bottle. Slurring my words and being in a careless state offers me the freedom to not worry about how I stand or how I look from the outside perspective (i.e. my friends and family), however, being sober is when I create many excuses and false narratives of judgment for myself while the day passes by. Vilifying my close ones seems to be my coping mechanism, which I feel guilty for, but when it comes down to it, it’s what helps me make myself feel better for being lazy. The people closest to me are victims of this mindset since they know so much about myself, especially if they don’t coddle and comfort me when I’m not feeling the most productive, and I look at them as being ignorant towards my own mental health. Selfish as I am, I use that as more justification, leading them to confusion and frustration. Even so, whenever they do tell me what I want to hear, it’s always met my own counter for every bit of encouragement. I know this isn’t a new concept, I’m always bombarded by people and their advice who show their relation to mine, but when I look at them and myself in the mirror, there’s no way we are seeing the same reflection. Writing about these flaws I have is ironic in a sense because it takes so much for me to sit down and open my Word document. I ask myself if it’s the act of doing it that bothers me so much or rather the introspection, and to be honest I feel like it’s both. My mild depression has gotten to a point where doing what I know I love becomes a chore, and making it seem like I’m alright by giving people other than the truth would contradict with my own goals.

These truths force me to ask myself, how can someone who is so creative and puts out content on a regular basis be so unhappy with their own mental well-being? This of course is in reference to the people I know who deal with these types of issues. Issues that they express within their art, but for me it would be impossible to pick up a pencil, let alone type on a laptop about my daily failure, and describe in a such an abstract way that relates to so many of you.  Sure, I’m projecting, however, I’m just envious in the way these types of people go about it. The idea that you can be so talented, so on track with your daily tasks and goals, but still have this deep dissatisfaction with yourself is scary, knowing that I will continue to try and try again, but still find failure and stagnation along the way creates this loop of doubt. You see, once I find a way to be creative and it requires practice to turn it into a skill, I hit a wall that blocks me from progressing to the next level, just like with writing. The deadlines that are set upon me feel like much more than just getting one task done, but rather being motivated by the thought of finishing, I worry about what if I’m asked for more, what if that’s all I can give, and leaving my friends to look at me in shame. That’s why I stay glued to my bed for so long in the morning, the safest place away from those responsibilities and expectations, expectations that I've been aware of since day one. These are cowardly traits that I don’t really understand nor where they come from, but being aware is something I tell myself that I can take pride in, but pride is dangerous for a guy like me. It clouds my understanding of someone’s intentions to which I realize their point way too late, either upsetting them or reaching another level of anger that I didn’t want to get to in the first place. I wish this wasn’t the case, but if someone questions my productivity (or lack thereof) unprovoked, I get defensive immediately, leaving me looking bitter. Really I’m just annoyed by the truth of what they’re saying. 

These expectations hurt the most when they come from someone so close to you, especially someone who has taught you so much, yet you don’t retain any of their advice. Whenever, I was in middle school my father used to come home defeated, physically, and emotionally from the day he took on. He would always mention how heavy and grueling the worksites would be, but this was something he didn’t have an option to step away from. I look back and reflect on the times I would have no responsibilities to attend to, just living day by day, going to school to get D’s and C’s on my report card and being happy with passing. However, my father had a different perspective on the way I carried myself; how I could waste all my potential by doing the bare minimum? I took all his projections of not being good enough and internalized it as hate and confusion, because how could someone who preaches so much about support not provide me the confidence when I needed it?

Then I grew up. Now I am seeing how I let these patterns of doubt and procrastination overcome my life. The idea that my father’s mental health being the cost of all that joy and relaxation is something I get angry at myself about. He had the desire to set a standard of work ethic for me and  it didn’t resonate at all in the end, almost like he did all of that in vain? My father and I’s relationship has made it a long way from where it was, and after a while of opening up to him, it comes to no surprise that we aren’t so different from one another. His upbringing resonated with me heavily as his confidence didn’t come from primarily his mother, but more so his failures. I would be ignorant to not acknowledge the privileged position I’m in, in comparison to my father, but realizing that his stagnation we both share in our day-to-day life, I fear that this feeling of my own self-worth being proportional to how much I get done is inevitable.

The thought of becoming like my dad doesn’t scare me, but becoming more like this fixed version of a lazy and chill guy that just goes with the flow all the time does. I think this feeling of complacency lies deep within all of us whether we like to admit it or not. It just seems counterproductive to continue perpetuating this kind of behavior. I don’t have all the answers to my questions and being this honest scares me completely. It allows so much room for people to judge or peer into my world, and I have no idea of whether it’s being trivialized or not. Unfortunately, that matters to me. No matter how much pride I can have of my shortcomings, I don’t think it can withstand the weight of the truth.