Late last week my fourth month of independent living commenced. To celebrate I have written almost 5,000 words on the Hawke era for my thesis over the past 6 days, working two thirds of my conscious time on average. I guess that’s the freedom I was seeking when I started this journey.
In between repeated diagonosies of ‘information overload’ and tiredness, there have been some bright spots: trivia victories and defeats, finally getting to know Brisbane and getting to do things on my own. Don’t confuse this with ‘by myself’. There’s something magical about hopping into town under ones own steam, having lunch and returning back home without having it as intricately choreographed like a 17th century Opera.
Now that I am finally settled in, I’ve reluctantly decided to try and make another concerted effort to date again, despite my best efforts to avoid it. Unfortunately, even though I’ve tried to get other things that I want more, and I’m still confronting the same problems as last time, it is a bigger issue than it needs to be, probably due to my lack of meaningful experiences. It FEELS like a necessity for absolutely no reason and at the same time it is both a touchstone and a building block for my self esteem. I see people who seemingly have less than I do, happier than I am (although I’m a long way from where I was) and I wonder what makes them so special? What do they have that I am missing? These questions should probably make a difference of say 5% if I had to quantify it, but to me it feels more like 20% and I can never work out why: though 80% is still okay considering I’ve never reached 100% of comfort in 29.5 years.
Now that I'm healthy again, I owe it to myself to try and attain perfection, even though its unlikely to ever happen. Quite a good microcosm for my life actually...