Note To Self by Connor Franta
Note To Self by Connor Franta
The first ever book available in the HH space.
Note To Self is a total thing of beauty and I haven't been able to put my copy down since its release this month.
"Two years after the release of his first book, Connor is ready to bring to light a side of himself he’s rarely shown on or off camera. In this diary-like look at his life since A Work In Progress, Connor talks about his battles with clinical depression, social anxiety, self-love, and acceptance; his desire to maintain an authentic self in a world that values shares and likes over true connections; his struggles with love and loss; and his renewed efforts to be in the moment—with others and himself. Told through short essays, letters to his past and future selves, poetry, and original photography, Note to Self is a raw, in-the-moment look at the fascinating interior life of a young creator turning inward in order to move forward"
Now the words from the man himself.
It’s late May, the seasons are changing, and I’m off again, headed as far away as I can stand to go on my own. Honestly, the destination couldn’t matter less at this point. All that matters is that I get away.
I gure that if I ee as soon as things aren’t work- ing, then maybe I’ll be all right. Maybe everything will become good again if I run away to somewhere better. By going to a new location on a new day in a new time zone lled with new people and new experiences, maybe, just maybe, everything will turn out better. Maybe.
This isn’t my rst dramatic escape. If it were, I would be much more frightened and damn near crippled with anxiety. This is, however, my rst time leaving the country to do it. I’ve never ed so far. Typically, I’ll go somewhere like the Northwest to visit my brother (did that twice) or home to Minnesota to be in the comfort of my parents’ home (did that twice as well) or to New York to get caught up in the busy city life surrounded by strangers, but hey, at least I’m not alone (did that once). But never before have I gone as far as London. That’s quite excessive, especially from Los Angeles: eleven hours by plane, ve thousand miles away, eight hours “into the future.” That’s, um, a lot. Even for me.
As per usual, I’ve convinced myself that I’m leaving for a good reason: to be with friends, or to take some time off, or simply because I want to. Sadly, those are lies—deep-rooted lies told to myself and everyone close to me. They’re all bullshit excuses that further dis- tance myself from the truth. Deep down, only I know I’m running away. Nothing feels right, or the same, or good at “home” in Los Angeles anymore. It’s shit, continues to be shit, and I need to get away from this shit. I need to leave behind the constant reminders of what was and what will never be. I have to escape the pain that bombards me from every direction and haunts my mind with lin- gering questions. I’m sore from thinking, and my senses are numb to reality. It’s not even about a broken heart anymore. I’m back to where I was in college, reverting to the depression that cripples my everyday existence. Everything is shit or, at least, that’s what the depression convinces me is true. It’s like looking into a foggy mirror that won’t clear up. No matter how many times I try to wipe it away, the haze returns.
In a way, this is my version of fight versus flight. I’m not a fighter, as you might very well know. I hate confrontation in any form and avoid it like the plague. But I do fly when the going gets tough.