I haven’t been writing too much lately. Everything’s been quite discouraging for pretty much the entire past year. My blog’s traffic went down, recovered, went down again as if controlled by some mysterious superpower. And that’s about how I feel about everything in my life lately.
I have always been a fighter. A long time ago, I chose to be optimistic and believe that if I do the right things, if I try hard enough, the Universe would align and things would work out. The right doors would open.
But that’s not what I have been experiencing. Over the past year, I was forced to admit many defeats. I believed that I would be able to stop my hair loss, which I have been suffering from since the age of 14. I changed my diet, focused on meditation and mind healing, tried some ‘scientifically proven’ treatments. But after years of trying, I was forced to admit that nothing had worked. I used to dream about one day being able to write a blog post about ‘How I stopped and reversed my hair loss after very many years’. I was hoping I could give hope to other people struggling with the same ordeal. But that didn’t happen. Instead, I am now following people on Instagram who wear wigs and accepted their predicament with grace.
I spent years studying all sorts of communication and psychological advice, trying to be a better person, a better friend, a better listener. I spent years patiently working on healing my emotional and psychological trauma and have it stop from interfering with my life. But then I realized that other people do not really aspire to do the same and once you hit a rough patch and stop being cheerful and optimistic, you find out that you really don’t have friends. So I decided I will not care about people who don’t care about me. The most difficult thing was coming to terms with the fact that my own family doesn’t care about me and in fact, never did. I came to embrace the massive vacuum that is the foundation of my life and I created all sorts of coping mechanisms for myself to help me survive.
I accepted that I have no control over other people’s treatment of me and came to terms with the loneliness that inevitably comes when you let go of all these people. But I still believed I could have some control over my life. That if I work hard enough on my dreams, the right doors would open and some new exciting chapters would begin. But even that didn’t happen. Despite getting a pretty good review of my first novel from my literary agency in the Czech Republic, the agency wasn’t able to have a single publisher read my novel in the entire year (they wouldn’t even read it…). I started working on my second novel, this time in English. Pretty much everyone whom I showed some of my chapters was excited about it. So I submitted some of my chapters into a couple of competitions, hoping that it would get some traction, but even that didn’t happen. So now I am at a place when I am wondering, whether this entire miserable existence, all this effort, is worth anything. How long can you keep trying without achieving any tangible progress in your life? Why do I get all this inspiration and ideas when I can’t really get anywhere with it? How much longer can I keep trying?
Many years ago, I decided I wouldn’t follow in the footsteps of my parents. That I would not become a negative person with nothing but booze to fill up my life. I wanted more. And I worked hard to achieve that. I inoculated myself with positive thinking and faith. I meditated, became a self-development junkie, believed in positive vibrations and healing. But it appears to me that it might be the time to admit that I didn’t get anywhere (which I have no doubt my narcissistic mother, sister, as well as the narcissistic guy who inspired so much of my writing on this blog would love to hear. I can almost feel their quiet passive-aggressive joy. I can see my mother gleefully telling family members and friends that I am not doing well – that’s how sick that woman is). Sometimes I feel that the entire universe is conspiring against me. Sometimes, I feel cursed. Sometimes I feel that just because I climbed into this world from the wrong vagina, my life is destined to be miserable – just as my mother wanted my life to be.
Is really all I can hope for just trying to make enough money to make ends meet until the day I fucking die?
Losing hope is hard. But lately, I feel I have no more energy in me to keep self-motivating and hoping that eventually, everything would fall into place. There is only as much as one person can handle and I feel that I have exhausted my quota of inner resilience and faith. There must come a time when you accept that maybe, things do fall into place for other people, but not for you. Now I have to figure out what that means for me and my next steps in this world. It’s kind of frustrating when the only person you can really talk to is your therapist whom you have to pay to do that. That’s the world we live in.
I have been quite affected by the Jeffrey Epstein horror unfolding in the media, realizing that this entire world really is run by some dark forces, dark people. Reading about all these powerful people, these toxic lawyers, and their techniques of shameless silencing and blaming victims, the reality distortion that they use, just made me feel totally hopeless about life on this planet.
I guess I lost hope. I guess I lost faith. The two things that have been powering me for so many years. And with that, I am not sure whether I can cope.