Sometimes I wonder if I hate my mother because she is the way that she is or because I am the way that she is or because I am the way that I am.
We are both:
She is:
I am:
I think it was Montherlant who said that happiness writes white: it doesn't show up on the page. [...] Who else but Tolstoy has really made happiness swing on the page?
Martin Amis, London Fields, p. 23
It's true. When I was happy before, in those very specific moments when there's no good reason to be happy but you just are, like when I'd walk out to grab something from Tesco and the sun was shining and I had plans with friends for the day, I remember my body feeling light and my mind blank.
I've realised that's what I'm hoping for. Hope may be too positive a word, what I'm feeling is more of a passive want. I imagine it wouldn't be euphoric, more like serene, or at least what I understand as serene. (I don't know if it's always been like this and I've just hidden it well, but recently it seems I'm not as sharp as I used to be. So we'll go with that - "what I understand as serene".) Just solid, middle-of-the-road nice. Some sort of relief as well. Like when you hit your toe on a piece of furniture and there's the initial pain that makes you draw a sharp breath, but then after a few seconds you breathe out and the worst is over. It's not so much that it gets better, but it's not bad anymore. It's bearable. It's nice to know that you can bear things.
I don't like endings, there was a reason why but I forgot. I've never personally experienced an ending (most things seem to simply peter out) so maybe I just don't know what to make of them. Especially in books. Maybe I just don't know how to read. There's never an epiphany waiting on that last page (not in Good Books anyway), no revelation to be gleaned. This is all because I finished My Year of Rest and Relaxation and it said something (which I've already forgotten, but maybe I made a note on my Kindle) that reminded me of The Goldfinch and that passage at the end of it where he Realizes things about the Nature of the World, none of which I can remember. (Someone tweeted they couldn't remember a single detail of any New Yorker piece they'd read over the years. Neither can I. Should stop watching TV or listening to podcasts for background noise.)
Anyway, I've been dreaming about death again. I thought about giving myself ultimata - either the end of this year, or maybe the next when I turn 25, or maybe when I turn 30 - if things don't get better I'll detonate the vest. Haven't given much attention to how things would get better or what my role in that would be, but the question of what would be the most effective political statement is interesting. The problem is I want to be honest. I have rarely, if ever, taken responsibility for the course of my life, and I'm probably not going to start now, not with my weight, not with my looks, not with my career prospects. Obviously admitting this would distract from any broader point I'd be making.
I'm getting braver in my dreams too. I think of guns and bombs. Maybe because I've realised I'm stupid and resentful of my expensive education that brought me nowhere (other than to Moscow, where I got bulimia and began my slow mental health decline - I really do have to laugh), but also not ambitious or driven enough to do anything about it, so this seems like a low effort way of raising the stakes and not having to deal with the consequences.
