Hi Brenna
Yes, I've kicked off the program, and I'm doing the activity/mood tracker.
What are my hobbies? My first reaction to that question was horror - I just do not give away that kind of information about myself. I'm secretive by nature (and that's just one of the things I so dislike about myself) and I won't share anything which is important to me, or which might open a window onto my soul, with anyone that knows me. I have interests, and things I do on a daily basis, which noone else knows about. I don't mean particularly shameful things, just routines (rigid routines sometimes), habits, favourite music, books, films etc. I don't want other people knowing any of these things about me. I don't want other people aware of me. I'm a bland, blank canvas for more capable people to paint their expectations upon.
Having gone through my internal routine of horror at the thought of giving away so much information about myself, I realised that I've come into this site and shared the most intimate secret - that I seriously contemplate suicide because I despise myself and despise my life and can't see it getting any better. It's the anonymity, the difference and purpose of the relationship that makes me able to 'vomit it all over the floor' (in the words of my counsellor). It was the same with the counselling. The fact that it was a therapeutic relationship, that she is not my friend or a member of my family, that I will never encounter her outside that situation, made me able to just let it all out. Poor woman, she got a lifetime's worth of bitterness and self-loathing thrown at her.
Back to the point - I really don't have any hobbies - I just can't apply myself constructively to any interests, which just serves to increase my frustration and contempt for myself. I bought a guitar early this year, intending to really apply myself and teach myself to play. I saved up for it, sold things to pay for it, and now it sits in its case mocking me, and I haven't played it for months. I don't dare : it's become a totem, a symbol of how I just can't stick at anything, can't concentrate or apply myself, even to something I am doing to relax. So my nice new guitar lives in the corner and mocks me. I have lifelong delusions of being able to write - but just can't discipline myself to produce anything but garbled pseudo-avantgarde rants about my state of mind. Therapeutic maybe, but frustrating, because I'd like to write something coherent that somebody else might actually want to read. I have a bunch of poems from years ago, which may be publishable, but I don't think I can handle the inevitable rejections that would come my way. Maybe that can be a future goal for myself, to reach a point where I have enough self-belief to submit my work for publication.
Your idea of taking up a class of some kind - that's a good suggestion but for me it's an impossibility, I'm afraid. I have a long-standing, deeply-entrenched hatred of social activities, meeting people, talking to people socially etc. I can't even fake it any more, so it's best for me to avoid any and all social contact like the plague. If I can't avoid it, I invariably end up with a severe headache and throw up. I don't 'do' friends and stuff like that, just immediate family, and as I said earlier, they only know the tip of the iceberg.
Heavens, look how I've gone on. Self-obsessed, indulgent, arrogant fool that I am.
I agree, Ovechkin is great.
