Shared Misery (draft)

The things to write about. Its been a series of splurges trying to scratch beneath the surface. Nothing that interesting is coming. I am beginning to wonder if there is any point in writing any more. It was fine as a diary to catalogue the daily events of an adventure i embarked on. But to speak daily here when there is nothing exciting happening seems pointless. What can i talk about. I can keep going around in circles with my continual eternal head fucks, but to what end?

I start a new paragraph here. Because im empty. I suppose i want to get somewhere deep. Without preaching. Just lay something bare on the page that some one else recognises. Some one else relates to it and sees it as a part of them too. And just recognising that tiny glimmer of shared experience in the writing suddenly feels like they are not alone. A shared moment across time. A shared feeling. A connection through time and space. A feeling shared. Lifted from my soul and laid bare on the page, and understood and felt and shared by a lonely stranger in the future in another land. I guess this is the power of writing. This is what excites me

I read the self help books, they tell you what to do. In 10 neat steps to make your life better. But you rarely do these things. Nobody does it. They just read it. And feel like they are doing something to improve their lives. You leave with a set of instructions on how to fix a problem. But sometimes a set of instructions isn’t what we need. If we go to a friend and tell them our problem and before we’ve even finished they come up with a ten point plan for recovery, we’d leave feeling pretty lonely. And unheard. I guess this is the feeling i am left with after finishing the latest trendy self help book of the moment. Initially i come across an article, review or recommendation. I get excited. I think this sounds amazing. The dopamine kicks in, I buy the book asap on amazon and am excited by the thought of it turning up in the next few days and how im going to drop everything to devour it. In the whole process this is probably the best time. Then it comes and i tear it open. I rub my hands on it. I smell it. I flick through. I read the back. I read the contents. I am so excitied about devouring this information. Another fix. I know i am going to be a better person once all this is in my brain.

At the first opportunity i sink all the introductory bits into my brain. I read fast. Im looking forward to getting to the meat of the system. I pummel through the story of the authors failures and eventual success. I go through the obligatory Flight of Flight bullshit they all seem to talk about. And how we don’t have the need to fightsabre tooth tigers these days. Why the fuck did we evolve so excellently into the most cleverspecies on the plant but for some reason a part of our brain still thinks we are cavemen and there might be a tiger in the stationary cupboard. I skim through this chapter, as it seems to be the same chapter in every one of my self help books. And i know its leading up to thecrux of the system, and i need the system, because im broke. I dont work . I need fixing. I need Self Help…

Usually thenwe are presented with 10 chapters. 10 tools. 10 steps to take. One per week often, like we are going to be still messing about with this in10 weeks time!! Dont they understand we want the info in ASAP and in 10 weeks time we’ll probably be half way thru another book after stuffing our confused brains with the techniques of several other books and articles that promise to fix us.

I read it. And try and get through the bits where the athour talks about imself or name drops by skimming and just fly toward the bits where there is anything i can learn. It all seems to be common sense, but it feels like revleations to me. I get excitied. It tells me to do exercises but i keep going, i just need this wisdomin me. Selfhelp.! Im helping my self!!! Im reading, thats good init?

At the end of the book i have a vague recollection of a load of techniques that i havent tried and the acronym of some system that is already dissapting from my memory. I close the book whack it on the shelf. Do i feel better? Noi dont. I havent helpedmyself.
This is not self help. This is asking for help from an author you have never met. And that author getting a lift from amazon to your house. Instead of listening t o a word you say they start blabbing on about how they are so succesful, they wereonce like you, but now theyre not. They sussed it. And they are friends with Branson and Gates now. But you’re not. Dont worry they once hated themselves and lived in a cupboard and ate fluff for 6 years. But now they are so succesful, they got it sussed. And here they are in the shape of a big shiny white hard back book just gleaming at you like come cocky know it all bastard. And for a minute you are impressed. They are going to share all thheirsecrets with you,the loser!!!! If you just shut up and listen for a few hours, they are going to completely outline every single step they took to become rich, sexy, and loaded. And if you can remember this massice volume of random advice, maybe, just maybe you can be like them.

But dont moan! Thats the lizardbrain you unevolved bastard. I dont want to hear your story .I dont want to hear excuses.I just want you to folow my ten week plan. And you too can be clean and loved like me.

But i

Dont want to hear it. I told you, i was once a sad lonerwith nolife but this is the system to stop that life. You want to stop your existence? Then stop moaning. And listen to me, the winner here.

Eventually this guy fucks off. He shuts the door and i remember practically nothing he said,. Other than i am a loser and i could be like him if only i could be like him. But… He failed to mention most of his money and success and come from the sales of this book shich were pushed on people who were lost in life. People looking for answers and susceptible to anyone selling what they claim to be the answer. He goes. With a wink and a click of the toungue he shuts the door. I look through the dirty nets as he slips into his jag and sits in the drivers seat. He doesnt movefor a while . I see him look at himsel in the rear viwe mirror. He looks athimself for a whilre. His steely grin has folded down into a lumpy sad face. He stares. And then slowly drives off.

A few hours later after trying to remember all the techniques that Chad gave me and trying to do some of them but just feeling like a twat, i flick throught my phone book. Im feeling pretty shitty . I dont think ill eve be Chad. I cant even get a job and i dont socialise. I cant be this networking machine with gun ho attitude and an acronmyn for every situation. I have problems.

I stop on C in my phonebook. Scribbled is Chuck, i had a chat with this guy in a bar one night. he seemed like the loneliest guy in the world. His eyes contained the pain of many pasts, far too many for one man. people seemed to keep away from him. he smoked constantly and poured spirits into the split in his wrinkly face.

I picked up the phone. Buk i said

Who is it.

Its tristan, you propbably dont remember me

Hey Tristan man hows it going?

Yeah ? Um what you up to.

I m just here going stir fuckin crazy again man, trying to process this goddamm mess. How bout you? Fancy headin out for a chicken sandwich