Decisions

I thought if I wrote about the future, this might prove helpful. At the very least, it would help me understand my thoughts better. I’m not sure what to do about them – my thoughts; nevertheless, here they are.

I write often about being alone, of feeling lonely; and how being lonely makes me sad. However, I’m not lonely in the traditional sense. Yes, sometimes I feel terribly alone, cut adrift from the rest of the world; not physically, but emotionally. I’m an outcast, persona non grata, expelled to a prison cell. And so it’s important to not that my being alone worries me, and this makes me nervous about the choices I’m making, have made or are yet to make.

As a result, I’m procrastinating a lot. I’m content to sustain a sort of holding pattern, like a pilot waiting for clearance to begin the approach to landing. But there’s no radio signal being received, just static. And so days slip by without my having engaged in them. One empty day merges into the other and into the next. Weeks go past in a blink of an eye, months, even years, too. I lose track of time and after a while whole swathes of my life disappear from memory as if never having happened. I panic whenever I think on how little time remains. The pilot fears running out of fuel as still there’s no signal to land. And so I lie awake a night close to tears, pondering my mortality, filled with a feeling of hopelessness at having not had time to do… to do… I don’t know what.

And here too is a problem. There’s no victim for my mourning. I’m full of regret about the past, of the wasted opportunities; though I can’t name any of them, I just feel them. I regret the poor decisions I’ve made, though I know not which. I look at old photographs, a faded Polaroid or blurred jpeg, with a heavy heart, sad at how fast the time has passed me by.

Knowing this is a futile morbidity, I’ve tried to change, to shake off the funk, to look ahead and about myself, to focus on the now; but it feel hopeless. Always, the past calls loudest. I can’t help but answer. Even as I type, I feel pathetic.

Predictably, I’ve seized upon the lockdown as my pardon from decision-making, as an excuse for my procrastinating. I know painfully that I’ve done little in my life and it’s a source of shame; but the lockdown offers some relief to my angst. It allows for a deferral, a delay, a rain-check. Given the ‘current situation’, how can I do anything but sit here and type; and like the early morning passenger on a bus who stares out of the window and watches the world pass by, I live life through the actions of others.

Fear is at the heart of my paralysis. I’m scared without being afraid. You see, the fear I have is a fear of the unknown. It’s a fear of sailing the good ship ‘me’ into uncharted waters, out into the deep sea, in search of new lands. And so the fear of being afraid means I cast my anchor in safe ports, as I did years ago. Not that it really matters.

I’m in the doldrums, too. And if I were to pull up this rusty old anchor and raise my crumpled sails, there’s not a breath of wind here. I’ve stagnated, becoming dormant, fear dominating my decision making.

You see, I don’t like leaving myself vulnerable. Being vulnerable means being at risk of hurt, of pain, of betrayal. I’m a coward. I don’t want to be hurt or to be afraid of being hurt. And so I’ve become a saboteur. Maybe even subconsciously, although not always, I set out, stealthy like an assassin approaching his prey, to protect myself, kill off risk, to wipe out any vulnerability. The saboteur does the things needed to ensure there’s no risk of change. Like a loving mother, he strokes my hair at night as I sleep.

Yet there’s a paradox here, as I know acutely that many of life’s gifts arrive precisely when one is most vulnerable.
Not every day is like this, I’ll have you know. For that would be truly awful, and very few could persist in such a state.

And this is perhaps the most insidious aspect of this whole affair. There’s an anaesthetist at work, too. You see, the pain receptors are being blocked, often I think in different ways. Sometimes I think I’ve worked it out, this puzzle; I’ve made a choice and I feel good about having done so. It’s as if I’ve discovered a map and a compass and can now plot a course, out. Sometimes I feel like I can decide. Alas, these times don’t last long. In the space of an hour, less even, the anaesthetist has moved in, and I’ve changed direction again. An about turn. Backwards to the safety of the doldrums.

It’s as if I ruminate on my decisions. Mulling it over repeatedly until eventually I change my mind. This loop continues like feedback on a guitar amp until either the need for a decision passes or it’s too late, or someone else decides for me. This last one is perhaps the most serious problem of all. So I struggle to lock decisions down, to move on to the next decision.

As a result, everything feels temporary, fluid in motion, like the mixing of oil in crystal clear water. I feel adrift. Still without a compass. Aimless and all at sea. I’m moving in circles, neither increasing nor decreasing. I go around and around and around. Over the same ground, again and again.
It’s tiresome. I’m tired.

And all this is because I can’t decide.