snowed in

Standard

I’m not happy.

I mean, sometimes I am. Several times a day. That’s a lot of happy, probably. And I have the strongest impulse to tell myself and anyone else who cares to ask and every invisible person on the internet that I’M SUPER. But lately, when I’m alone and without distraction, I just feel sad.

I’m so afraid to be negative. I hate that part of me. And when I engage in hating myself it makes me hate that I hate myself which, shockingly, does not improve things.

I’m not exactly where I want to be. I’m struggling financially. Not unfamiliar territory. Easy to feel beaten down, I suppose.

When I try and just sit with myself, like I’ve been doing most of this day thanks to the aesthetically pleasing snow storm, I don’t feel content. I don’t feel relaxed, despite not expending any energy on anything at all productive, I’m tired.

Obviously, I know what this is. It doesn’t take my useless B.A. in psychology to name it. And I’ve been in this place before. And it’s not bad.

I mean, it is not pleasant, but it’s hardly like the world is crashing down on me.

I just want to happier. I remind myself and I’m grateful for everything wonderful in my life. And that helps.

Whatever part my brain chemicals or personality may play in this, fucking believe me, I would never feel this depressed again if I won the lottery tomorrow.

Advertisements

inner terrible someone

Standard

THISTHISTHIS! So much this!

I would be lying if I said my inner critic had nothing to do with my recent Christmas-hating funk. Or if I said it was all about Christmas or all about the damper that my dumb sister has put on it with her dumb upsetting life decisions, and not at all about my “love life.”*

And since I read Sugar tonight, I feel like I might as well own up to the not-crippling-but-still-yucky insecurity that plagues me, mostly in regard to my relations with the male gender. (BTdubbs, I’m going to describe everything tonight in the most insane phrasing possible, because I’m hyper and loopy and haven’t eaten in 12 hours.)

I like to think I’m confident. Maybe I’m just not.

In dating, when things are not going well, when I don’t seem to have a lot of prospects, or god forbid if someone rejects me, I think things like they hate my teeth/fat/voice,  they think I’m too loud/boring/opinionated/awkward etcwhatever and I struggle not to hate and think those things about myself.

But in NewAndExciting neurosis, when things seem to be going good with somebody, I second guess everything. I catch myself looking forward to hearing from them and curse that impulse. I wait for them to realize they hate my teeth/fat/voice,  they think I’m too loud/boring/opinionated/awkward etcwhatever and for things to end. I try and figure out how not to be disappointed if that happens.

I don’t know when I’ll relax. I don’t know when I’ll be secure.

There’s another voice, of course, that argues the case for how awesome I am. If something goes wrong, I know damn well how to handle that. It’s just hard to enjoy the things I should be enjoying when the asshole lady in my head pops up randomly to remind me not to get too comfortable.

Hard as it may be to believe, I don’t like admitting when I’m a ball of insecurity. I don’t like to be anything other than my best unapologetic self. That’s why I loved this Dear Sugar column. It’s nice to be reminded that I’m not the only one, by any means.

 

*obnoxious term

dignity

Standard

I’m a little scared. Not surprised, though.

I don’t know what would be worse – that supporters of “personhood” legislation are on a cold, calculated mission to overturn Roe v. Wade by any means, to the degree that they are indifferent to the gross and illogical consequences of their extremism OR that supporters wholly and fervently believe that a fertilized egg is metaphysically identical to any human person and should legally be treated as such, at the expense, of course, of the human person who might be incubating said egg. It’s probably a healthy mix of both kinds of craziness.

A person’s a person no matter how small! Fuck off. (Not you, Dr. Seuss. The assholes would have come to this idea on their own, and might not all be simple enough to take moral advice from a cartoon elephant.)

I can’t even stomach trying to write a more intelligent, respectful or persuasive response than that. Other people certainly have. Just. Fuck. Off.

I would, however, like to point out, since something like 80% of fertilized eggs never make it past implantation, since I may have been sexually active in the past month, and since I am currently mid-menses, that what appears to be a crime scene in my panties (heavy flow!) could in fact be considered a crime scene in the impending dystopian nightmare that this fantastic country of ours is fast becoming.

I would also like to point out that it’s going to be tricky to ensure that blastocysts are able to take advantage of all of their new liberties, such as 2nd amendment rights. Can scientists engineer microscopic firearms? I truly hope so.