July 1999

Going Down

Dear readers, how are you all? Doing fine I hope, unlike myself. I can already hear you saying 'what is this fag going to melodramatically winge about today'. Now before you click 'back' or close your web browser, think, what is Finn best at? I think you will find one (if any) strong point of mine is when I am basking in my highly melodramatic self pity. At least then what I write is not too deep and brooding and 'just like every other teen-fag'.

What I shall winge about firstly is my exams being over, god dam it. All the misery created by constant revision of things I am likely to have forgotten by the time I am twenty five and burnt out and the constant, unrelenting stress of what the results will be, has gone. Oh, how I hunger for that security blanket to return (which it soon will). When the exam pressure and stress was there it was a wonderful mask for emotions, and it also provided a quick, simple, believable and palpable reason for the state of misery I perpetuate myself in. Now, however, I am forced to look at myself in honest detail to try and discover a reason for not feeling fulfilled the way everyone else looks to be or has the pretence of being.

It's not that I feel compelled by society to examine my feelings in a pop psychology manner to then go and 'discuss' my problems on national television as we are supposed to do because, like it or not, we belong to Generation X. A generation so devoid of identity or beliefs that it has a deep need to create an identity on and individual and group level through talk shows, gadgets, mobile phone and loft apartments. Also we are forced to believe, not in god as our parents were, but in pop star idols who have reached notoriety through iconoclastic behaviour. I don't subscribe to these ostensible Generation X behavioural patterns. Rather, I go for the more fulfilling underside of this generation which seems to exist in Douglas Coupland novels which allows you do what you wish with your feelings and body.

I am not compelled by a single person like one of my friends to find the root of my typical 90's give me some Prozac please depression. All my wonderful friends are all very laid back when it come to digging up peoples emotions unless it involves responding to letters, all the same I love them all very much so they are not the reason for this emotional archaeology I am undergoing.

It is not even a therapist that is making me try and find out what is the root cause of my chronic lack of fulfilment because here in the North East we just don't do that sort of thing unless you are at the point of mental anguish you are dangerous to the public but still then nothing is done. If something were to be done the North East would be devoid of Bus Drivers and Teachers.

At this point I run out of reasons for external forces pushing me towards this answer I wish to find and I have to return to myself for explanation. There is very little point in attempting to blame what I want, think or feel on other people however it may be because they may play some part. However I am so single minded they couldn't influence my thought patterns to the point I have devoted many hours trying to figure out why I don't feel fulfilled. It is not because I can't get that bike, stereo, car or what ever, that I feel the way I do, material possessions have nothing to do with it. However, it does - like with materialism - involve wanting. What I want like nothing else on earth is a RELATIONSHIP. In every other way possible I am happy. I am totally immune to homophobia, I have all the material possessions I want and my friends Love me (I hope) and I Love them. All I want is a guy, as I have said one hundred million times so I will leave it here for July.

I thank those of you who have read this far in to this article and I will apologise for being so dam depressing. Last month I said I was going away for the summer then but in fact I am going away this month on the 5th and will be back on August 8th. If you have any comments please do write to me. I will reply, it will just be late.



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