Posted in August 2014

Frustration

I’ve been grumpy lately.

 

The emotion propelling this is frustration.

I am frustrated about a number of things. Relationships, money, creative satisfaction and so forth. The usual I suppose; we are all in the same boat.

 

Well, some of us are, some of us are on Yachts, so they won’t know what I’m on about..

 

If you look up the definition of Frustration in the dictionary, the result is this:

 

The feeling of being upset or annoyed as a result of being unable to change, or achieve something.

 

This is bang on the money. On both counts.

There are things I can’t change, things that occupy my already noisy mind. Things I lie awake at night, obsessing over.

 

Then there are the things I want to achieve that I haven’t yet.

 

Mostly I get frustrated with myself.

Wanting to be better, more successful, more proactive, make better decisions,  etc – the list goes on.

I’m frustrated that I’m not where I think I should be at this time.

 

Of course to quote Megan in Bridesmaids:

 ‘You’re your problem Annie, but you are also your solution’  

A bloody amazing movie, that rang true for me on so many levels. She’s creative but had failures, her love life sucks, and she drives a trusty shitbox. The only thing is her wardrobe is so much more glorious than mine. Really, they should have asked me before using my life story, but, whatever!

 

There is hope and clarity in Megan’s  statement. It’s true. I just need to fix things for myself. It may appear to those who don’t know better, that I’m impatient. But I feel like these things are a long time coming.

 

I’ve always worked hard, in any job I’ve taken on. No matter how big or small, I’ve always given it 100%. When I cleaned tables at a Debenhams cafe one summer, (after graduating with a very good degree I might add) my colleague, a slovenly boy, would sit out the back and read his books, shirking his role, whilst smoothing his gelled hair off his face. I would keep busy, wiping the marble tables and scooping the crumbs into my cloth. The manager came by one day and said he’d never seen anyone as hard working as me. I privately beamed.

 

Little did he know, that for me, this was a piece of cake. I’ve never been shy of hard work – having been employed by my parents to work their farm from a young age.

 

When I worked a bar, whilst studying for my Masters, I routinely took the most sales, and made the most tips. I worked 14 hour shifts and served in a sweaty bar, 6 deep, surrounded by clouds of thick smoke (pre ban). It wasn’t pleasant, but I did it, and I did it with gusto.

 

The point is, I’m a hard worker. I’m not precious. I’m not averse to work and starting at the bottom if I have to. It’s getting the right opportunity that seems to be the kicker.

 

I sent an email to the head of CBBC once. I asked if I could make his tea and get some experience. He was very nice. He asked me what I really wanted to do? As people who do this ‘just make really bad tea’ – he had a sense of humour. I said anything creative to do with production – writing ideally, or presenting – just being involved in the creative process. He asked me to send him a video, which was just wonderful. I felt hopeful.  I did – and he liked it. But he ended up leaving the position shortly after and nothing came of it. I guess it was a long shot. But it was disappointing no less.

 

After my amazing summer studying at the inspiring American Academy of dramatic Arts, I was invited onto their prestigious two year program in New York. I never wanted anything more. I gained a $10,000 scholarship but needed a further $20,000 for fees, and about 10 grand more in the bank. I wrote to every funding body there was.

The amount I collectively raised?

Zero.

We were in a recession and everyone was keeping their purse strings closed tight under their chins.

So I had to turn down the opportunity.  To say I was gutted would be an understatement. I felt like I’d been dumped.

I’m not trying to make anyone feel sorry for me. I’m trying to explain where my head is at.

I need to be sated on a creative level, and that’s not happening. Certainly not being sated on an emotional level. And that’s too complicated for even me to wrap my head around. There are things at play that we cannot control, however much we want to. Maybe I need to accept some things, maybe that’s the problem.

For the most part though, I will pursue in the face of adversity.

So yes, forgive me if I’m grumpy,  I’m frustrated.  Extend some compassion, because I will always do the same.

I’m still working things out.  For those of you on the yachts, I’m hanging onto the lifeboat, and it’s bumpy back here.

 

In the meantime, I do have a few irons in the fire.

 

Let’s hope they ignite.

 

 

Tagged

Weakness

You.

 

I think about you every day.

 

You are living rent free in a space in my mind that seems to be permanently reserved for you. I should have a cerebral sofa installed – seeing as you are already comfortable where you are.

 

I can’t concentrate. You probably think I’m pathetic. I’m not sure if the way I feel makes me sad or a fool or completely consumed by you.  I imagine it is all of the above.

 

I dream about you.  Last night I dreamt you promised you would stay and then you left saying ‘that you never’ promised that and then I came to your house and lost my shit because you were sleeping in a bed in the garden… and not alone.

 

 You would never promise that. You don’t make promises.

 

You blocked me in the dream. Sometimes you block me in real life. It’s all Freudian for the way my mind is fucked up about you. Maybe the garden represents how we are entangled like vines. Or maybe it’s because I keep being pricked by the thorns that come with knowing you.

 

One day our connection is strong like a piece of rope, the next it’s a fraying piece of string barely holding on. We go back and forth.

 

I don’t want to feel this way, this weak way.  It’s almost like you are my Kryptonite – you make me weak but you are like a piece of me.  I want to be able to put you in a little box in my mind – the way you do with any thoughts of me. You lock that box and you’re able to throw away the key for days. You chuck it over your shoulder without a care in the world, and it rattles down a staircase before disappearing down the rabbit hole. Done.  How do you do that? I would buy that off you. People everywhere would buy that off you.

 

I do things. I keep busy. I go to the gym. I go drinking with my friends. I enjoy all this. I’m creative.

 

I even go on dates with other people but this all just serves to remind me that they are not you. That they are not funny like you are, or quick or witty or sexy. They are not lean or lofty or have beautiful hands and a warm demeanor. It fucks me off, it does. I want to meet someone else, I really do. I try, but you know what they say, a watched guy never boils.

 

I sometimes delete your number – and all the messages we exchange so I don’t tirelessly trawl through them re-living our conversations again and again. And even though I don’t know your number off by heart, I can still find it if I need to. A bit like a drug addict going cold turkey, and scrabbling around the house for a supply.

 

I wish I was stronger and sometimes I wish I wasn’t so sensitive and emotional, but you know what, that wouldn’t be me. This is me. This is how it goes.

 

If you turned up at my door, you think I’d turn you away? You know I wouldn’t. And you have that comfort. Some days I wish you would turn up at my door. It would make me so happy.

But If I turned up at your door – not that I ever would – you would pretend you don’t know me. If I had a broken leg you would probably pay a taxi to send me away. That makes me sad. But that’s the situation.

 

Say goodbye, I hear you whisper, but when you have that rare and amazing spark with someone (and when you hardly ever have it with anyone) - when you touch someone and feel like electricity is coursing through your veins – do you really turn it down?  Be honest, it’s hard to resist, when you connect with someone intellectually, emotionally and sexually.

 

Keeping in mind we are all human, and all weak- the Fallen Human Condition and all that.

How can I give it up?

Can you give up coffee? It’s not *really* bad for you, is it? It’s not like it’s good for you, but you are addicted and you wouldn’t feel great if you had to give it up would you? You’d miss its comfort and warmth, and the way it peps you up. The way you need it in the morning, and think about it in the afternoon. And that’s just coffee.

When we are together, you are lucid and you hold me like you mean it. I feel your heart thumping excitedly in your chest. We talk to each other like old friends. You laugh and your stormy grey eyes dance when looking at me. I rearrange my life for those precious moments. They mean so much. 

 

My father once told me it’s a great thing to care about other people, especially if you know you won’t get anything back. It’s noble and loving. I have often thought about that and it comforts me.

 

I think you care too, in a way that you don’t communicate with words….. you show me in other ways.

 

You tell me things you don’t tell anyone else. You won’t admit it but I’m one of your best friends. Seeing your name on my phone makes me feel euphoric. Every snippet you share with me makes me feel closer to you. 

 

How can I say goodbye to that?

 

Let me have my coffee for now. I’m not ready to give it up.