I wish I were a fashion designer or scientist or...

Proenza Schouler

I am writing this post for this blog now, when I should be working, because a waitress in the restaurant I frequent asked if I am a fashion designer. I keep Pinterest open for when I take breaks. And I said, "I wish." And I thought, "I do wish."

There are two things I wish I had done: studied a science degree and found a way into fashion. I don't wish I had studied fashion or become a designer or become Dion Chang (I really truly do not), but I wish I had found my niche in the industry.

Flaming stars and captions to the lines of "You can do anything" flash overhead. No, no, you cannot do anything. Apart for things that are physically impossible, so much relies on luck. Being in the right place might be at the wrong time and vice versa.

People who can do something are often lucky: the right parents, right degree or internship, the right people and the drive. You can try for anything but you will only get somethings.

I am disillusioned. I have the dreams, the drive and I have spent the last ten years learning to be the best at what I do. I am pretty damn good, I get on with people and I try to be everywhere at all times. I am also pretty screwed up and Bipolar - thanks family tree.

It's not a deal-breaker, but it requires at least another person's worth of drive to get up in the morning, answer my phone or check my email. What I have left goes to eating properly and maintaining a routine - and that routine includes waking up at 10.00 and working until 1.00. What I want to do is curl up on my couch and read or draw or make origami mobiles.

Thanks, therapy. Before, my drive kept my head above water. I packed my distress away in literature and various self-destructive behaviours. I thought myself existed outside those shelves, but as it turns out it was mostly inside. We let that me loose and I made up for lost time. "Feel the fear," I pushed, because that is what I do. I do.

Lanvin

For a while it worked. Until it didn't. Until the distress and fear grew into utter despair and I couldn't do anything. Couldn't answer my phone or check emails or read or get excited about things. Depression isn't sadness; it is despair. It is being in a dark basement and knowing that this is your past and will be your future. Why bother answering phones? Why bother?

So, thanks Bipolar; thanks heredity; thanks therapy.

With one gesture of a magician, my drive is gone. I have to believe that being alive means that I have something to live for. Guilt? Fear? Fear of failing? FYI, I am failing, miserably. Congrats, therapy!

Fashion distracts me, as does learning about science and technology. I want to absorb it all. I want aesthetic and the satisfaction of making something and some sense of identity. I don't know that this, even if accumulated, is enough to make me want to live. It's something to do, while I fail at failing to live.

I meant this to be a gung-ho post: life is a series of planned and unplanned coincidences and we persevere. I wanted to say these things make living worth the darkness. But nope, they don't. They are a distraction and maybe this is as good as it gets so let's be glad for small things. I want my drive
back.