Brendan Peveril . net

Here’s another essay I wrote for the page a few months back. It’s actually about something I wrote quite a long time ago. Get ready for the depressing!

So, a long time ago, I went to a therapist who told me that I was having a miserable time, but there was nothing wrong with me that needed medicating. That’s a kick in the teeth, eh? Especially when you’re the type who may have a less than healthy tendency to solve problems by finding some kind of filth to pack into your body to make it hurt less rather than actually dealing with the problems. Anyway, that’s not my point. Said therapist also suggested that I try a common exercise, to sit down some day and write about my “perfect day.” When I knew what I felt would make my life perfect, then I’d not feel so lost, directionless and miserable.

It took me about a year to get around to it, but I eventually did. Now, several years after that, I’ve found that original essay and I thought I’d share:

I was once told that many therapists recommend to people who are unhappy that they, before worrying about all of the little problems in their lives, define in their minds their perfect day, whether that moment should last for a heartbeat or a year. In the interest of self therapy, let me share my perfect moment with you.

It would be the morning. I’d be in my house, a little cottage with two or three bedrooms, an office, and a little porch that faces the ocean. I’d be sitting in an old comfortable chair with a cup of coffee.

In my office, I’d have books. All kinds of books. There’d be a computer that suits my needs, and a lamp with another comfortable chair under it to sit in and read. I might still be awake from a night of writing, or I might be ready to start writing after a night’s sleep.

The writing part’s important, you see. I love writing, and I have for as long as I remember. I started Killpop as an excuse to put stuff I wrote online in a more interesting format than a “Hey, look at my writing” page. I can’t imagine being happy in any job where I couldn’t take advantage of my writing abilities, except possibly working as a computer programmer. That’d rock too.

From there, it devolves into an angry political rant, since, as a Canadian in the process of moving to the United States less than a year after they knocked down the World Trade Center, I thought about politics a lot. I’ll spare you that bit though.

I ought to clarify, also, that Killpop was a short lived e-zine (remember e-zines? Hello, 1996!), that I edited/wrote most of. I stopped bothering when I looked at my list of articles for the second issue and realized that nobody else gave a fuck, and it was just me writing about how angry I was about things. In retrospect I’m glad I gave up since it might have turned me into a journalist, the idea of which, honestly, I abhor.

I’d like to poke fun at my youthful misconceptions at finding a job where I write things every day too. Watch those baby-dreams die, motherfuckers!

Anyhow, let’s skip ahead to the end bit.

Now that I’ve shown you my perfect day I’m sure that many of you must agree with me. It doesn’t take a whole lot of brain sweat to think of little things to make each day a little more perfect, so let’s try it. The weight of the world isn’t so heavy if you’re not the only one to bear it.

Oh yeah, on my perfect day, my cat would still be alive too, and immortal.

So there you go. Only four years ago, and that was what I thought was perfect. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still pretty keen on most of that, and I don’t necessarily disagree with the omitted bit, either, although I don’t think I’d give it the weight I did then.

What strikes me most is the thing I that I forgot about and left out of the whole essay, which, I’ve found as time passes, is more important than everything else. More important, even, than my immortal cat. When I read things that I wrote a few years ago, especially highly personal things like this, I’m struck by how strange and alien this person that I used to be feels now. Maybe that’s how everybody else sees me now. How could I leave that out of my perfect day? Was I taking it for granted? Was it actually not in my perfect day? It’s most likely that I assumed that I’d loose what I had and never be able to find it again, but that I didn’t want to dwell on it when I was trying to think about being happy. If that’s why, well, it looks like a case of life imitating art now, of course. Maybe I wasn’t such a dumb kid after all.

So, what happens on your perfect day?

There you go. Behold my misery.