What truth is there to be found within the pages of a self-help book? God, I really hate that term 'self-help'...it's so bullshit. Help yourself; why, because no one else is going to? Why is there even a name for these kinds of books - why are there so many of people in need of so much help?
Well, today I declared that it was a very bad day. I ended up working myself into a right state; thinking about all the things wrong with my life. I decided that I needed some 'help'... I got home and I reached for the book that has been sitting on my shelf for years, called 'Happiness, Now'. I don't know what I expect to find - I hope there is something in there that will tell me how to make a real life out of the shell I presently reside in.
I don't know how to be a twenty-something; I don't have friends, I don't belong...and I suspect I only actually exist in the hours between 8am and 5pm weekdays, minus public holidays - I cease to be anything outside business hours. How sad.
Is loneliness a choice or a condition? Some kind of genetic affliction - predetermined and unavoidable? I want to be more than people think I am; I want to exceed my own imaginings. I don't know how to escape this identity I seem to have created for myself - sculpted with the lies of avoidance, a perfect projection of all my choices made in response to fear. A perfect example of what not to do.
Dear 16 year old self - do everything you don't want to; say yes to everything that scares you - and for Christ's sake, stop thinking so much. All I need now is a flux capacitor.