mainsqueeze's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- - "I'm better than nothing, and nothing is better than this." You know, this blank entry screen intimidates me more than nearly anything else in the world. I have these expectations for myself- I must write something witty and poignant. I must not misspell anything. I must use proper punctuation. I must affect my reader in some way, any way. I'm throwing those fucking expectations out the window. Really, I'm done being so critical of myself. It has always affected my happiness, and now that I'm approaching my 20th birthday, I'm becoming more critical than ever. I've got to stop it, I do. Two people, in the past week, have commented on the ridiculously high standards I set for myself. I've known one of them for less than a month, and the other has known me for my entire life. Tony, the new friend from California, remarked on the harsh judgements I impose upon myself, just a few days after meeting me. I was surprised when he said what he did, mainly because I thought I came off as a laid-back, content person. Apparently not, huh? My father, tonight, said roughly the same thing. I called him in the midst of a mini-breakdown. I was in tears, wondering aloud why I still hadn't found that one thing that I loved, that I was good at. "When I was little," I said, "You always told me that someday I'd discover my place in the world, Dad. You said I'd love doing one thing so much, and I'd be really good at it, and that would be what I was supposed to do for the rest of my life. Why haven't I found it?" He reminded me of the many hobbies I've taken up over the years-Piano, accordian(don't ask), sculpture, writing, sewing, cooking, singing, guitar, flute, painting, film- And then he asked me how long I'd actually FOCUSED on one goal, one single goal. I don't focus, really, not ever. I set these quotas for myself- "I should be able to do this by this date," and so on- And I end up becoming so frustrated and angry with myself that I shut myself away and I stop trying. I said goodbye to my Father, and I walked across the room to the dusty guitar propped up in the corner. It's been there, untouched, for nearly a year, but it was still almost perfectly in tune. I held the instrument across my lap, and I strummed a chord. I could feel the strings cutting into the soft skin on my fingertips. I could hear the slight buzz that occurs when your fingers are not positioned correctly. The sound echoed from the high corners of the room, imperfect, and weak, and it was the most beautiful thing I'd ever heard. 12:09 a.m. - 2003-03-21 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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