how i became brannon, conclusion

*Note:  I am so sorry to all diarists for clogging up the front page!  I know that’s obnoxious so forgive me!  Hopefully this is the first entry you’re seeing as you begin to read "how i became brannon."  Due to the multiple entries required to complete this endeavor, it will be easier to go to my diary front page and click on part 1.  From there, use the links at the top and bottom of the entry (on the right) to navigate your way back here.  Sorry for the inconvenience but with OD being difficult to work with, this is the best I could manage.  Thank you for reading.

"I’m afraid that I am me and I had no say in this
 I dare to be self-aware when ignorance is bliss
I never do the things I want
I do what I don’t want to
I’m fortified for treachery
and hopelessly untrue…"
-Showbread, I’m Afraid That I am Me

"And maybe we’ll get lucky and we’ll both live again
well I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t think so
you missed when time and life shook hands and said goodbye
when the earth folded on itself and said
‘Good luck, I hope heaven and hell are really there
I wouldn’t hold my breath’
You wasted life, why wouldn’t you waste death?"
-Sun Kil Moon, Ocean Breathes Salty

It’s been 9 years since I started this diary.  7 years since my last kiss.  4 years since my graduation from college and subsequent degradation into the dirt.  I’ve made no progress.  I keep waiting for perfect conditions to crawl up from the grave and come alive again.  I want to be as stress-free as I can and without distractions so I can focus on planning to be better at something, whether it be art or writing or just myself.  But those conditions have not cropped up.  I don’t even know what the perfect conditions would consist of at this point.  It seems apparent to me I won’t find a better job any time soon and I’m going to struggle with money and my weight for the foreseeable future.

It feels impractical but I know it’s not impossible.  I’m just waiting to shake this spell.  And honestly, I feel I’m over the worst of it.  I have my good days and bad days but mostly I’m neutral.  I’m in a comfortable hell.  I’m seized up, unable to move forward due to my death but I’m looking forward to feeling the rigor recede so I can be mobile again.  I think it will happen.  I just don’t know when or how.

For 4 years, I allowed myself to go through the grieving process over the loss of my talents and certain friendships and ambitions.  I did not hide from my feelings, did not shy away from the darkness.  I always heard burying your emotions does not work, that it will only make the problem worse.  And for the longest time, I did just that.  I only stopped doing it when I started writing.  I took the darkness on and allowed it in and expressed it.  And I think expressing it has also expunged a lot of it from my system.  Writing has helped me do that.  I finally understand what these artists mean when they say composing a song or poem helps them heal.

This is how I’ve healed.  And it seems strange because my writing does not convey healing but I had to tear myself down, had to expose the gritty meat of mourning and process of putrefaction in order to completely realize and recover from it.

I think writing about my life has helped me come closer to discovering who I am now and why I am the way I am.  I think my parents and sister and cousins and toys and television and crayons and screaming and music and friendships and education and travel have shaped me, as these things have shaped all of us.  We are not born from dirt but from clay and every event shapes us.  Our bones and our personalities are at their softest when we are children and that is when the first thumbprints sink in and mold us the most.  From there, we grow up and harden at the core, forming our base personalities until only our outer layers are pliable.  And as we are exposed to the elements, everyday erosion wears on us.  We are continuously worn down and shaped up until we crack apart.

This exploration of my childhood has not uncovered all the rocks that led to my recession but I do think it has led to a bit more clarity.  I understand a bit better why I act the way I do, although most of it is still a mystery.  I think my parents’ lack of interest in my talents has made me feel like an inadequate artist.  I think my sister’s resentment of my birth has made me feel unwanted by people.  I think my weight gain and acne has kept me from being outgoing and confident.

Conversely, my lack of intimate relationships have given me a certain logic when giving advice to jilted lovers.  My sister’s interest in art and horror was passed down to me, as well as my dad’s love for animals.  My struggle with weight and image and feeling outcast has given me empathy (*gasp* yes, it’s true) toward others who have also struggled.  All the times I felt down and depressed and lonely have also made me a better writer.

This isn’t a case of placing blame on people or circumstances or events.  It’s simply cause and effect.  This certain thing happened to me and it affected me in a certain way.  This certain thing didn’t happen to me and it also affected me in a certain way.  It’s just how it goes, how the cards are dealt, a simple roll of the die.

I had a normal childhood with a normal family.  My life story is not the most intriguing or filled with the most hilarity.  No one circumstance avalanched on top of me.  It’s been cumulative, a small series of sharp cuts that have added up and taken their toll over the years.  This type of progression of pain has made it more difficult for me to get to the root of my regrets and more difficult for other people to understand how I could be so dysfunctional despite a humdrum upbringing.

My parents are not bad people.  They aren’t particular good either.  They’re just people.  Average.  Nothing exceptional.  They’re small-town and small-minded.  They had kids because it’s what people did.  And they loved my sister and me but they didn’t nourish us.  My mom is controlling and stifling and wants to run everyone’s life.  My dad would rather share a 6-pack of beer and fishing stories instead of his feelings.

I’ve never sh

ared my body or brain with someone else.  I’ve never indulged in the flesh of another or divulged my most intimate thoughts and fears with someone without worrying about the risk of rejection.  I’ve never had total security or serenity with someone else.  I’ve been alone all of my life and the longer I’ve been alone, the harder it feels to not be alone, both because I’m not sure there is someone out there for me and because I’m unequipped with the tools to be a proper lover and companion.  The longer I’ve been apart from love, the more I’ve felt undesired.  It’s had a detrimental effect on my confidence and has only helped to keep me lonely.     

Besides my art, writing has been the only activity that’s emerged throughout the years that I genuinely enjoy and makes me genuinely happy.  Writing was a pastime that turned into pleasure that turned into therapy.  I tried to write to understand myself.  I shared my writing in hopes someone else would understand me as well.  And maybe I could even help someone else in the process.  I know when I come across writing that describes me or the kinds of feelings I can’t express myself, it’s validating and in some ways empowering because it makes me feel a little less alone and a little less crazy because someone else shares that same feeling or fear or fantasy.  And so I thought if I could write down how I felt and someone read it and felt the same way, then I could give them that feeling, help them feel a little less alone and a little less crazy and maybe a little more empowered.

As of today, I’ve written a memoir, two novels, dozens of poems and over 1,000 entries.  Not bad for a late-bloomer writer.  I’ve come a long way in the nearly 10 years I started.

But the response to my writing has been underwhelming.  There’s still a wall between me and others.  Some don’t get it.  Some don’t take the time to get it.  And over the past 4 years, I feel the message and value in my writing has deteriorated.  My writing has always been a bit twisted, slightly dark, a bit macabre, but over lately it’s just been glum with no redeeming value.  You’re left with nothing to think about except, "Damn, what a whiner."  And I don’t want to be a whiner.  I need to step back and reevaluate what I want to say and how I want to present myself through my writing.

I originally wanted to leave this place entirely but the more I thought about it, the more I wasn’t so sure.  I guess I feel you all know so much about me but just like I discovered about myself, you still don’t know a fraction of it.  You don’t know enough to walk away from my diary believing you have the whole story.  I don’t want to be summed up as an ex-artist loser who is pushing 30 with no prospects for love or career success.  Maybe I’m just embarrassed but as far as I’ve come and as much as I’ve failed, I still think I deserve more than that.  I am not just my diary.  I am not just my job.  I am not just my body and face, although all of those elements have helped direct me where I am today, both physically and emotionally.

I am a person, a soul, an entity, a body, a mind, a presence that pushes against the world and pulls against itself in an effort to learn and express, to realize and rationalize and understand its placement and predicament.  I have had good times and I have had bad times.  Maybe it’s all about perspective and I have focused mainly on the negative aspects of my life.  But if that’s the case, why?  Am I naturally negative or was I never taught to see things a certain way?  No matter the case, there comes a time when I have to take responsibility for my own actions and thoughts and decisions.  I can take in my past to try to understand why I have done the things I’ve done and why I am the way I am today.  But it’s up to me to take that information and use it in a constructive manner when it comes to future endeavors.

I miss the good guy I used to be.  I want to see him again.  I want to be him again.  I just have to figure out if it’s within me to be that person or if I should just lay him to rest and retrieve whatever humanity I can and try to move on.

To do this, I’ve got to keep writing.  But I have to focus my writing.  I’ve been editing my memoir for several years now.  This project covers my first year of college and the hard time I had there.  It was basically the beginning of my downfall.  As I mentioned earlier, writing about my experiences helps me to release them from my system.  I need to get this memoir out of my system.  I need to finish it.  I can’t do that while trying to maintain this diary.  I’m not much of a multi-tasker.  So besides trying to gain a different perspective, finishing my book is another reason why I’ve decided to leave.  But I won’t be gone forever (that is, if Open Diary is still around in a few months.  Not only has this final project been a large one in terms of length but also in terms of trying to work with Open Diary, which has been slow and unresponsive over the past several weeks, a condition that seems to be increasing in frequency and frankly it is both frustrating and disheartening).  This is just an extended hiatus, a leave of abscess of sorts.  I will come back in a few months or so, to check in or update you on how I’m doing.  I ask that longtime readers keep me in your bookmarks while I’m gone but if you don’t want to, I understand.  I know some of you like to keep your bookmarks clean and tidy with active diarists and I get that.

Thank you to everyone who’s been encouraging and given thoughtful advice and constructive criticism.  Honestly.  It means the world to me that someone would take the time to be kind and offer help.  Thank you for reading along though the bumps.  Thank you for sticking with me this long.  I’ve seen a lot of diarists come and go and I appreciate the ones who have stuck around.  I’ve even met some of you in person and you’ve been lovely.  And I apologize to the ones I’ve lost contact with due to my infrequent notes and general lack of commitment.  It wasn’t you, it was me.  I promise.  I can admit I’m a flake.

I will continue to note my frequents and if I move to another part of the web, I’ll let you know.

Thank you for reading.  I hope you had a few laughs throughout the years and despite some of the dark times I’ve shared here, I hope you also learned something from me that you can apply to yourself, even if it’s how not to be a douche.

Thank you.  You are wonderful.

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Me, as I am today.

-Showbread, The Death (Anorexia Version)