for the record

my first journal is a miserable read.

beginning in august of 2019 and concluding in august of 2022, it is an artifact of pure misery.

reading it you would think that nothing good happened in my life in those three years, but that isn't true–i just didn't write it down.

i wasn't in the habit of journalling. the only time i ever thought to do it was when i was absolutely going through it; when my ability to stay in denial was overwhelmed; when there was no room left in the bottle.

towards the end of that journal the entries started getting more frequent, and i resolved that my future journals wouldn't last as long–if i was going to be painting a picture of my life, i wanted to paint a more accurate picture.

autumn this year–barring the flash flooding–was quite nice. the beginning was a bit of the summer we didn't really get, and the end of it has been mild with lots of sunny days.

but i knew as soon as there was a drop of rain, amnesia would set in and everyone would go back to complaining about how the weather in wellington is always bad.

i have a complicated relationship with the idea of gratitude.

when i was growing up, gratitude was a thought-terminating cliché used to get me to stop complaining. if i ever had a problem, the real problem was that i was being ungrateful. thinking about it now, it makes sense why i grew to never let anybody in on what was happening in my life.

but to use a different cliché: you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone. i try to appreciate things now, should i ever not have them in the future. if i ever end up in a situation where i don't have running water, at least i'll be able to say i didn't take it for granted.

it's a line i try to walk carefully, because it's a fine one.

when i hear the word "gratitude", i can't help but hear the echoes of "if you don't like it here, you can fuck off to [topical war-torn/impoverished/authoritarian country]". it's a sentiment i've been exposed to my whole life, and i wish i could say it makes me feel any better to have been right all along about where this sort of complacency was going to take us; but i can't say it does.

it's a form of denial. but it would be a mistake to let it stop us from acknowledging the good. after all, what's the point of persevering? what are we fighting for? if everything sucks, why try?

in my life there are phases of good and bad.

there are times where my mood is good, i can think clearly, and i don't feel as disabled.

and there are times where my mood sucks, my mind is foggy, and i feel like my body is shutting down on me.

when things are good, i try to savour it–and i try to remember to write it down.

when i flick back through the journals i've written in since that first one, i don't come away with the impression that my life has been a non-stop carnival of horrors. i can still read about times i was going through it; but i can also read about times i saw friends, times i was feeling optimistic–even times i was keeping on top of my chores.

lately, things haven't been great. maybe it's the shorter days, maybe it's campaign season, maybe the good times were just me racking up a debt i'm paying now. when people ask me how i am, my answer has usually been some variant of "i feel like i've been hit by a truck".

but for a while there, i was doing great. i didn't journal about it as much as i'd like, but i remember really clearly how well i was doing because i was telling everyone–why only share the bad times? and knowing i wouldn't always feel that way, i savoured it as much as i could; and didn't let myself dwell on its inevitable end.

and now, when i'm not doing well, i can hold onto the knowledge that it is actually possible for me to feel good. and when i ask myself why i persist, i have an answer: there are good times ahead, and all i have to do is survive long enough to make it through to the other side.

so with all that in mind i wanted to say, for the record: today was a lovely day.

:)