[ 2 min read ]
Diary of an artist, Friday, July 19, 2019
Woke up 4:45 am
Thus I understood that I have nothing I should be ashamed of or embarrassed by. That every peculiarity about us (me — my story from the moment I was born, my relationship with my adoptive parents — now with my mom, or in the past with both of them, the relationship between my adoptive parents, my family) is always a ludicrous reason to feel this way.
Of course, if I still thought (believed this bullshit, this lie) that there are normal families, clans of people consisting of so called normal people, and if I still compared my situation to the situation of those who are “normal” and who live so called normal lives (among other “normal” people) I would have such feelings from time to time. No doubt about that. And I would feel the fear that certain facts could see the light of day, that certain people might learn about something I don’t want them to learn. This would cause a great anxiety in me. The anxiety which makes sense (is justified) only if one believes that others are so fucking perfect, so fucking flawless. That they make no mistakes. That they always know what to do, or the right way. That they don’t have issues. Which is a lie we tell ourselves. They don’t tell us this — they only project normalcy, just as we do. And based on that projection we conclude that only our family is so fucked-up. Or that only we are so fucked-up. Or that only our lives suck, or are weird (unacceptable). That only we have things we should be ashamed of or embarrassed by.
And that’s something I believed. Until quite recently. And I had this tendency in me to compare my life to the lives of so called normal folks. Those who live in normal families. Those who have normal lives. Such a fool I was.
Music for this writing session: Max Richter (on spotify)