Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Posts Tagged ‘mental health’

Seriously?

I have the same thoughts today as I did when I was 12…and when I was 14, and 18, and 27 and on and on forever. I think I have grown, learned some things, matured, but no. I am still a fucked up kid in an oversized body. My angst today is the same who am I what is the point in life angst I’ve always had. My vocabulary has marginally improved. My grammar has not.

I am SO SICK of everyone wanting me to be someone I’m not. I am fed up with ME wanting me to be someone I’m not. But for fucks sake, I REALLY want to be anyone else. I HATE myselft, every ounce of myselft. I’ve been through therapy, I’ve tried to love myself, but it’s like accepting that everyone shits. It’s true, but no one likes the shit. No one wants to talk about or deal with the shit. Shit is a natural byproduct of existence; we eat, we process the food, extract the nutrients and shit the waste. It’s messy and we potty train our children and domesticated animals as quickly as possible so we don’t have to deal with it. I am a natural byproduct of unprotected sex. Sperm fertilized an egg and, as my mother loves to point out that she chose not to abort me, I was born forty weeks later. Well, forty-one weeks. My mother loves to point that out too, like I was late on purpose just to piss her off. I was a fetus, not really sentient, but sure. The shit/baby metaphor doesn’t work for other babies and is perhaps a terrible metaphor, but I’m tired and depressed and I’m going with it. I probably shouldn’t publish this, but I’m going to because…well I don’t have a reason. Which is kind of my point. THERE IS NO REASON FOR ANYTHING!!

Every day I wake up and I’m forced to go along with another day, go to work, interact with people, find some way to fill the hours. Then I go to sleep and, if I don’t dream or rather if I don’t remember my dreams, I get a few hours of peace. Then I wake up and I have to do it all again. All I’m doing is wasting time, pacing the metaphorical hallway, waiting until I finally don’t have to wake up again. I’m not helping anyone, I’m not raising children, I’m not making any contribution to science or art or literature. When I die very few people will remember me and those few will forget very quickly. I’m not important. The majority of the human race is not important, but the other people manage to find a way to be important to someone in small ways. They have loved ones, best friends, significant others etc. The people in my life who are supposed to fall into the “loved ones” category pretend I’m someone else. They’ve created this image for me: easy to please, happy, quick with a joke, sarcastic, witty, kind. I know that’s who I’m supposed to be and I try. I really do, but I know that’s not really who I am. I am some of those things some of the time. I want to be able to fit into that mold, but I don’t and actually I don’t really want to fit that mold. I want to be arty, edgy, funny, smart, strong. I want to be the kind of person who is passionate about a band or a poet or an author or SOMETHING and knows about that thing or person. I want to be liked for who I am, or hated for who I am, but to actually know who that is. Instead I wait until my “loved ones” are around and then I fill the roll they want. I say my lines. I’m quiet and pretend I don’t exist when they’re tired of me. At work I do my job, am polite to my coworkers, and try not to get fired.

When I’m alone…I ache. There is this emptiness where a soul/heart/personality whatever you want to call it should be and the absence hurts. I want to fill it but none of the things I’ve tried over the years work. I can distract myself from the emptiness, sometimes for long periods of time, but I can’t make it go away because there is no point or reason for my existence. I’m empty because that’s who or what I really am. And I hate it.

Advertisements

Read Full Post »

In two days I leave for vacation. My dad, mom, sister, and I will fly non-stop to Barcelona and spend a week sight-seeing. We have a side trip to Valencia planned where Dad will reminisce about his year spent studying (a little) and drinking (a lot) while he earned a degree in Spanish Literature before he got married. We’ll hear some of the same stories we’ve heard before and probably some new ones while we do a lot of drinking ourselves. Sounds pretty amazing, right? It is, and I know that. I know that I am extremely lucky to have a dad who can afford a European vacation and who is willing to bring his adult daughters along. I know I could never afford a trip like this myself and that I will see and do some great things. I know this. But what I feel…that’s a different story. I am grateful, truly I am.

I never express the anxiety these vacations produce because I don’t want to be a spoiled brat. I want to say I love these trips and leave it at that, but I just can’t. My mother and I do not get along. It’s a complicated relationship in which she pretends in public to like me, in recent years she’s begun pretending to even love me, but in private we both know the truth. No need to poke at that festering sore, suffice it to say that there is a lot of tension when we spend more than a few hours together. Then there’s the walking. I am fat, excessively so. I get around fine in my normal life but I am sedentary and don’t do much walking.  This week will be nothing but walking all over the streets of Barcelona and the surrounding towns. We’ll tour museums and churches, Dad has a thing for churches. We’ll climb towers for a better view and walk through the parks and gardens. My sister and parents will do fine. No one is in great shape, but they are all better off than I am and have been running and walking this past year. So I will be in the back of our little group, as always, struggling to keep up and knowing that I am holding them back. If they didn’t have to wait for me they could get a lot more done.

I will sweat. Not a normal “it’s hot out here and we’re walking around” kind of sweat but a “holy shit that fat lady is melting” kind of sweat. Any kind of heat makes sweat drip off me even when I’m just standing still. Add any movement and in about five minutes I’ll look like I just did the ice bucket challenge. My face flushes and I truly look like I’m going to die. I get a lot of stares from everyone and well-meaning expressions of concern from some. It’s embarrassing for me and my family and I never look decent going into nice places. So there I’ll be, huffing along behind them, wishing I could disappear and knowing they wish the same thing, trying not to drip sweat on anyone or anything and feeling my anxiety ratchet up as my soul dies a little more. I’ll try to make up for this by seeming like a worthy addition to the group. I’ll crack jokes, take pictures, grab brochures for the scrapbooks my sister and Mom will put together later. I’ll try to stay positive and happy. I’ll be grateful, I’ll accept every decision they make and go where they say.

Until the anxiety, tension, and discomfort are too much. Then I’ll lash out. Mom will say, within earshot of a stranger, “are you okay sweet girl,” while her eyes say “stop embarrassing me.” I’ll lash out.  I’ll hiss, “I’m FINE,” through clenched teeth and try to move away from her. I’ll deny that I need a break and will stomp on. Dad will hesitate on where we should eat, always wanting to check all of our options first, and all I’ll want is to sit anywhere so I’ll get snarky and make fun of him for being indecisive. My sister will just be there, not really doing anything to upset me, but I’ll be reminded that she’s the better one. The wanted one and, at the very least, the dry one. I’ll snap at her and say something hurtful. All of this is before lunch. Rest, eat, repeat. Every day for a week.

By the time we fly home I’ll be a mental and physical mess. My sister and mom will be barely speaking due to their own issues and my dad will be exhausted from trying to keep us all together and looking like a happy family. I’ll see the strain and regret in his eyes and it will stab me in the heart. I can’t do it anymore. I knew after the last trip that it should have been my last one. (We go every other year) I should have told them I was done but it’s just assumed that we’ll all go somewhere and I hate confrontation. I chickened out. I kept meaning to say I wasn’t going to go this time, but time piled up and suddenly everything was booked. I absolutely cannot do this again. This one has to be the last. I just have to survive it first.

Read Full Post »