"Misery," noun; "a state or feeling of great distress or discomfort of mind or body."
Yep. That. That is what I feel. I feel lost and adrift.
And I KNOW that I am the author of my own goddamn fate and the albatross-shooting captain of my own miserable soul.
...
I watched a TED Talk a while ago, given by a man with severe anxiety. At one point he said "I don't have stage fright, I have life fright." I couldn't agree more. I have never failed to make it through a day. I've never called in "sad" or "scared" or "afraid" to work. I'm a dependable, reliable, smiling, friendly employee. I work hard.
And it's such fucking hard work, is life. Getting out of bed is hard. I regularly have to logic myself into brushing my teeth, showering, and doing laundry.
I've been better of late, in some ways: I eat regularly. But I usually feel the desire to "edit undo" what I've just eaten. Meal planning and cooking and spending the necessary time and money and energy needed to "eat healthy" gives me anxiety, so I make the instant gratification poor choices of The Poor, then berate myself for it. I also joined a gym and got a personal trainer. But I'm embarrassed by my physical weakness and my fat body. I fear the eyes of other patrons, the judgement of the trainer, and the lack of results in myself. Again--this results in me mentally berating myself for further failure.
I don't socialize, really. And when I do I am aware of my pessimism and negativity and general unpleasantness. I try to remove myself from all shared environments due to an internal assumption that my presence is a drain and unwanted.
Through all of this, I remember an adage from childhood that went something like, "in order to have friends, you have to be a good one," and another than declared that "you have to be your own best friend in this life." Thus, I know that I am where the buck stops with all of the above miserable shit. I am aware that it is up to me to "fix" me.
And that just makes me seethe with rage. I don't want to have to "change." I don't like the idea that I am my own "problem" to be "solved" by me, myself, and I. I was never good at trouble-shooting or problem-solving, and I am stubborn to the core.
I remember reading somewhere that one has to WANT something in order for it to transpire. I suppose that is my current hurdle. I want my circumstances to alter for the better, certainly: I want a job that pays a living wage, that gives me a sense of satisfaction, and that gives me a sense of mastery and confidence...I want a body that works, that is strong and healthy and able, not fat, sluggish, poisoned, and weak...I want a life that has meaningful friendships and love in it--I want to love others and feel loved in return, and for obligation to not be in the equation.
But do I "want" to "invest" in that job search? That "perfect," healthy body? Nope. I really, really don't. And perhaps because those rather glaring elements are insufficient in my eyes in my life right now, I see myself as pretty damn worthless. And that worthlessness makes me aware of why I don't have a social life. I doubt I'd want to spend time with or become friends with or date me, either.
So here I am. Stuck inside my own head, like I have been for...a long time. I feel misery about myself and my circumstances and not hopeful about very much at all. And I know that that's on me. Which is an annoying and heavy thing.
I wish I could just "wish" away my thoughts and feelings, if only for the benefit of the people I care about. I wish my parents and friends didn't have to put up with this depressing version of a person. I often assume that many people in my life wonder what they did to get saddled with me. I wonder the same thing....I'd say I'd go for a personality transplant, but that's not it, really--I like my few remaining interests (poetry, stories, some books, travel, theater, really good food). I like my high-brow turn of phrase. I even occasionally like my uniqueness, knowing that there is and only ever can be one of me. I think, maybe, that is for the best.
I understand the concept of a "rough patch." But I feel like the mental state of me--my mind, my heart, my soul--has been in the weeds, in the dark, in the woods, stuck in the mire, in a rough patch for...a long time. There have been respites, of course. Even long ones. But it scares me still more to realize that those respites shape themselves around relationships that have been and now are no more. I fear and loathe the idea that my sanity and salvation lie in the companionship of someone else. (Or, if I'm honest, that doesn't bother me at all, really. What bothers me is that that someone else isn't in my life right now, might never be, or--the worst possibility of all--will be some day, but will find me "all too much," "too hard," "too needy," "too frail," "too fat," or "not enough," "not smart enough," "not strong enough," "not generous enough," "not pretty enough," "not woman enough"...). I am very much aware of my shortcomings. And, being so, I struggle to "sell myself" as "valuable" to anyone--a potential employer, a potential new friend, a potential date...myself.
...
I wonder what "value" I'd have as fodder. As internal organs sold to save more significant lives, lives more "full" than my own. Every life has a "purpose," right? And while I think I've had a positive impact as a teacher once or twice, I doubt much else of me has much to offer that is of "value." I'm not really good at anything. I have no standout talents, no spiritual gifts or fruits that make me a tool for the service of others, no skills that aren't more realized and better utilized in a thousand other souls the world over.
Purposeless, am I.
Beyond that, though, I can draw very few conclusions. I can do very little in general, really.
But I can read and write and turn a phrase. So I shall continue to do so for a while yet. Reading might be my favorite skill. And while it is in no way unique to me (indeed, my critical reading skills are rudimentary at best), I nevertheless take comfort in reading the words that other people have written down and sent out into the world, printed and pressed and bound, a message in a bottle, sent to any soul that happened upon them and cared enough to lay eyes of words and say, "I felt that."
These are the words that I feel. Misery, in particular, for the most part, right now.
But there are books. There will always be words. I'm so grateful for that.
Yep. That. That is what I feel. I feel lost and adrift.
And I KNOW that I am the author of my own goddamn fate and the albatross-shooting captain of my own miserable soul.
...
I watched a TED Talk a while ago, given by a man with severe anxiety. At one point he said "I don't have stage fright, I have life fright." I couldn't agree more. I have never failed to make it through a day. I've never called in "sad" or "scared" or "afraid" to work. I'm a dependable, reliable, smiling, friendly employee. I work hard.
And it's such fucking hard work, is life. Getting out of bed is hard. I regularly have to logic myself into brushing my teeth, showering, and doing laundry.
I've been better of late, in some ways: I eat regularly. But I usually feel the desire to "edit undo" what I've just eaten. Meal planning and cooking and spending the necessary time and money and energy needed to "eat healthy" gives me anxiety, so I make the instant gratification poor choices of The Poor, then berate myself for it. I also joined a gym and got a personal trainer. But I'm embarrassed by my physical weakness and my fat body. I fear the eyes of other patrons, the judgement of the trainer, and the lack of results in myself. Again--this results in me mentally berating myself for further failure.
I don't socialize, really. And when I do I am aware of my pessimism and negativity and general unpleasantness. I try to remove myself from all shared environments due to an internal assumption that my presence is a drain and unwanted.
Through all of this, I remember an adage from childhood that went something like, "in order to have friends, you have to be a good one," and another than declared that "you have to be your own best friend in this life." Thus, I know that I am where the buck stops with all of the above miserable shit. I am aware that it is up to me to "fix" me.
And that just makes me seethe with rage. I don't want to have to "change." I don't like the idea that I am my own "problem" to be "solved" by me, myself, and I. I was never good at trouble-shooting or problem-solving, and I am stubborn to the core.
I remember reading somewhere that one has to WANT something in order for it to transpire. I suppose that is my current hurdle. I want my circumstances to alter for the better, certainly: I want a job that pays a living wage, that gives me a sense of satisfaction, and that gives me a sense of mastery and confidence...I want a body that works, that is strong and healthy and able, not fat, sluggish, poisoned, and weak...I want a life that has meaningful friendships and love in it--I want to love others and feel loved in return, and for obligation to not be in the equation.
But do I "want" to "invest" in that job search? That "perfect," healthy body? Nope. I really, really don't. And perhaps because those rather glaring elements are insufficient in my eyes in my life right now, I see myself as pretty damn worthless. And that worthlessness makes me aware of why I don't have a social life. I doubt I'd want to spend time with or become friends with or date me, either.
So here I am. Stuck inside my own head, like I have been for...a long time. I feel misery about myself and my circumstances and not hopeful about very much at all. And I know that that's on me. Which is an annoying and heavy thing.
I wish I could just "wish" away my thoughts and feelings, if only for the benefit of the people I care about. I wish my parents and friends didn't have to put up with this depressing version of a person. I often assume that many people in my life wonder what they did to get saddled with me. I wonder the same thing....I'd say I'd go for a personality transplant, but that's not it, really--I like my few remaining interests (poetry, stories, some books, travel, theater, really good food). I like my high-brow turn of phrase. I even occasionally like my uniqueness, knowing that there is and only ever can be one of me. I think, maybe, that is for the best.
I understand the concept of a "rough patch." But I feel like the mental state of me--my mind, my heart, my soul--has been in the weeds, in the dark, in the woods, stuck in the mire, in a rough patch for...a long time. There have been respites, of course. Even long ones. But it scares me still more to realize that those respites shape themselves around relationships that have been and now are no more. I fear and loathe the idea that my sanity and salvation lie in the companionship of someone else. (Or, if I'm honest, that doesn't bother me at all, really. What bothers me is that that someone else isn't in my life right now, might never be, or--the worst possibility of all--will be some day, but will find me "all too much," "too hard," "too needy," "too frail," "too fat," or "not enough," "not smart enough," "not strong enough," "not generous enough," "not pretty enough," "not woman enough"...). I am very much aware of my shortcomings. And, being so, I struggle to "sell myself" as "valuable" to anyone--a potential employer, a potential new friend, a potential date...myself.
...
I wonder what "value" I'd have as fodder. As internal organs sold to save more significant lives, lives more "full" than my own. Every life has a "purpose," right? And while I think I've had a positive impact as a teacher once or twice, I doubt much else of me has much to offer that is of "value." I'm not really good at anything. I have no standout talents, no spiritual gifts or fruits that make me a tool for the service of others, no skills that aren't more realized and better utilized in a thousand other souls the world over.
Purposeless, am I.
Beyond that, though, I can draw very few conclusions. I can do very little in general, really.
But I can read and write and turn a phrase. So I shall continue to do so for a while yet. Reading might be my favorite skill. And while it is in no way unique to me (indeed, my critical reading skills are rudimentary at best), I nevertheless take comfort in reading the words that other people have written down and sent out into the world, printed and pressed and bound, a message in a bottle, sent to any soul that happened upon them and cared enough to lay eyes of words and say, "I felt that."
These are the words that I feel. Misery, in particular, for the most part, right now.
But there are books. There will always be words. I'm so grateful for that.
