“Everything in my life is contracting!” I often said back then.
My friendships and personal relationships were getting more distant and cold. My art and writing career was apparently washed up. My day job was a dead end. I no longer felt part of any kind of community. I was fucked.
But the worst thing was this feeling of emptiness. The sheer pointlessness of my life.
“When one door closes, another door opens up,” was the way my life used to be. But now it was like all the doors were closing on me, one by one. It was like I had painted myself into a corner that was getting smaller and smaller.
I couldn’t figure out what was causing this process. Let alone come up with a solution. I could only watch as it played out, with this growing sense of despair.
Part of it was simply my wiring. I’ve always had this nutty, crazed side to my psyche. Part of it was the result of some very harsh life experiences which had warped my soul in a way. And part of it was simply that this world can be a tough, tough place.
Loveless. Joyless. Seething with anger and bitterness. Riddled with anxiety and dread. Haunted. Heart-broken by life. Boo-hoo for poor ole’ Ace Backwords. . . .
Now it’s ten years later. 2015. And it’s been like a 10-year nervous breakdown. Like a slow-motion descent into madness. Whatever that missing piece was in my life, I haven’t been able to replace it.
I once watched this Alcoholic Anonymous-type documentary where all these addicts talked about why they got into drugs and alcohol. And the common denominator was kind of a spiritual emptiness. “I was never comfortable in my own skin,” explained this one woman.
Maybe that’s a lot of it.