Dan Daiquiri

Starting writing is the hardest part, for two years I’ve struggled to sit still and type anything into my laptop that wasn’t a daft wee drinks menu. I think the struggle is that it feels like I’m constantly running from expressing my thoughts in any sort of way. Too fearful to put words to paper, fearful because I don’t know what it’ll bring up, what deep dark crevice it’ll lead me into. Recently I started therapy, which was long overdue and to be completely honest it’s one of the most sensible decisions I’ve made. Bringing up conscious and subconscious truths to how I think and how the cogs in my brain turn. I’ve always lived in a kind of blissful ignorance, whilst internally feeling like I’m trying to grasp onto a thousand internalisations and memories but with a stream of consciousness so chaotic, its near impossible to even articulate. But this is where I’ve always struggled, talking about feeling and emotion. Writing was my own form of therapy, it helped jot down some of the harder to explain brain waves and rougher emotions I felt on the daily. This piece will kickstart a mini series of sorts, of thoughts and jots from the past two years.

Sometimes I’m regarded as stoic, but this stoicism is essentially a combination of not expressing how I’m feeling, and with that suppressing negative emotions. I’ve also learned very well to just sit with things and breathe. However I’ve found that when I’m alone, I’m stuck in a kind of trance of overthinking and end up down rabbit holes of thought, paralysed by things I want to do and learn, but often spend that much time overanalysing that I arrive at the point of inaction. This is a trope I’m very much aware of, regularly I think of all the times in which I’d shut people out, or actively cut people from my life. Believing that they were the issue, or that it was them making me the way I was. Now at the forefront of my mind, is the frank realisation that it was me all along, I was the one holding me back and the one polluting my mind with shite. I am slowly moving further down into this kind of fragmented reality. Where I’m aware that everything is fine and isn’t nearly as big as I think it is, and the other side of wanting to truly be a different person. Not a different person per se, in regards to how I act as a person or that, more in the form of just wanting a blank slate to write on. A fresh perspective, another breath of life.

I used to spend a lot of time, regretting decisions and loathing myself based on what I thought others perceptions of me was. My brain has worked in that way for as long as I can remember. The difference is now, I don’t really feel anything towards my past decisions and really anything I’ve done. In a sea of indifference, the open water can be tough.

This is my return lap, where I’m going to dive into random experiences from my past. I guess like a memoir, but not as good. Maybe one day…