Just some low-key whining.. no energy for heavy stuff.
I woke up this morning, soaked in sweat, and I knew something was missing, but I still don’t know what. I don’t even know if what’s missing is a good thing or a bad thing. What I suspect, though, is a missing link, a link that I am expected to place to bring certain things together in my life, and I don’t want to produce the link. They’re asking too much of me and often I wish I could just check out of life and go be myself. Peter Pan shit.
It isn’t optimism that is missing, although my optimism is not precisely “cautious” right now… perhaps “precarious” is a better word. I started out this year, a full fifteen days ago, with a bright outlook on life, optimism, even excitement. But having achieved nothing—is it too soon to judge? Though it’s not too soon to exert a little effort—I feel like I’m off to a bad start already.
What was I hoping to accomplish in fifteen days? I’m not sure. I was hoping I’d do more here on this blog but I’m paralyzed with anxiety. I thought I’d have read five books by now and organized my room and lost my holiday weight and gotten married and written a resume for when I lose my job and….
What’s worse—I haven’t even had any bad days at work! Complete radio silence from my boss. My direct supervisor is on vacation, and I’ve been alone. My conscience pricked me that I can’t go over a week without speaking to the store manager, so I went down to her office and asked if she was mad at me, because she hadn’t yelled at me in a week.
“I don’t yell! Stop saying that or they’re going to think I yell!” she yelled.
Sometimes I look at her and I can’t even be mad. At times, her stupidity is endearing.
Why did I say my optimism was “precarious”? Because I always feel like I could slide off into the abyss, if I release my foot. What got me out of a deep depression was simply getting tired of it. Tired of being complicit in my own misery. My hand said to me, I’m not doing this anymore. You can think whatever you like, but I’m not writing it down for you. Not filling notebooks with everything I hate about myself and how I shouldn’t be alive, I ran out of gas and agreed with my hand that I didn’t feel like it anymore, either.
But it’s always there, and I assume it always will be. In fact, I worry that any feelings of well-being and happiness aren’t actually real, they’re just me putting on a happy face. (Side note: for one month I took Lyrica, and I would literally catch myself smiling for no reason. Just walkin’ down the street, with a smile plastered on my face. Withdrawal was a different story, though…) I worry that nothing was ever fixed, it’s just covered up. But maybe just being tired of it is enough, because I know what will happen, and it ain’t worth it.
All my medical fears were present and accounted for, and I’m tired of them too. Sometimes, I understand why people want euthanasia. You reach the point where you’re just done. My health anxiety is off the charts and I’ll probably get banned from Reddit for all my downvoted questions. Maybe that’s for the better.
I’m sick to my stomach waiting for a lawsuit deposition for a car accident I was a victim in, and I know they’re combing through my therapy records as we speak so they can paint me as one of those crazy hysterical kook women.
So what was missing, after all? Honestly, I don’t know. It’s one of those things I only open the drawer and take out to ponder when I’ve gotten into bed and shut off the light, when I’m not busy worrying if I’m gonna die in my sleep.
Maybe I just miss getting yelled at by my boss. She’s going on vacation, and then I go on vacation (I staggered mine deliberately) and now what the hell am I going to do?