I haven’t been writing here lately. It’s not because I don’t have anything to say. It’s because I don’t know what to say about what I have to say. I’m still struggling. And it’s hard. I don’t like myself. In fact I guess you could say I hate myself. I hate how I look. I hate how I feel. I hate my mind. I hate my style. I hate my personality and my traits. I hate my habits and my anxieties. I hate my proclivities. I hate my addictions. Hate. Hate. Hate. So. What should I write about?
I could write about how much I hate my job right now. It’s boring. Bankers are not selling annuities right now. I am used to processing over a hundred transactions a day. Lately I have been lucky to process 6. The rest of my day is filled with busy work that is just stuff no one else has time or inclination to do.
I could write about the one gal at work I cannot get along with. She does not like me. I was ambivalent towards her. However, her disdain of me has created all kinds of self loathing and introspection on my part. Why doesn’t she like me? Am I too talkative? Am I not talkative enough? Am I too perky? Am I too maudlin? Am I too nice? Am I not inclusive enough? Do I talk about my cats too much? What? Why do I give this person so much power over how I feel about myself? It wasn’t such a big issue until this last bout of depression hit and now I can’t separate how I feel about myself from how she feels about me. She never acknowledges me. If she sees me in the hall, she walks the other way and doesn’t look at me or say hi. If I go downstairs to get mail, I will bring everyone’s mail back up with me. If she goes downstairs to get mail, she will bring everyone’s mail BUT mine. If I order out for lunch I will send an email asking everyone if they want to go in on a delivery order with me. If she does, she will ask everyone but me. It’s not in my imagination that she doesn’t like me. I just don’t have any idea how to deal with it. I don’t know what to do and It is driving me crazy and is just one more reason why I don’t like my job.
I could write about how some stupid fuzzy woodland creature chewed through our brand new gas grill hose and the frustration that encompassed me last night as I was trying to light said grill. I specifically went to the grocery store after lunch to get corn on the cob to grill with our lovely pork ribs and we were left grill-less. I will be purchasing a repair kit tonight and will be taking the hose inside with me each evening. Stupid squirrels.
I could write about my non-existent sex drive and Bob’s seeming second puberty. But I know family members read this…so no.
I could write about how I withdrew from my next class because I don’t yet feel prepared to enter the academic fray again quite yet. I have one more month off before I jump into the next class. Man I hope I can get it together in time for that class.
I could write about how bad I feel that Bob is married to me right now. He was gone overnight one night this week and I felt so much more relief. I didn’t have to do anything for anyone. I didn’t have to be an audience to anyone. I came home and made a dinner I wanted to eat and just sat on the couch watching TV and ended up going to bed around 9pm. It’s not much different from what I usually do, but I only had me to be concerned about and it felt as if a thousand monkeys had been lifted off my back. I could also write about how guilty that makes me feel.
I could write about how the other day I stopped by our local quickie mart because I needed something and as I walked the aisles I realized that I wasn’t hungry. No. I was empty. I wasn’t looking for something to fill my stomach. I was looking for something to fill this vast hole/void inside me. And as I walked the aisles I realized that nothing there looked good. Nothing felt good. Nothing was going to work to fill that void. I could write about how I left the store and sat in my car and cried because I felt so empty and could not find anything to fill me. I could also write about how I went home and ate cookies until I thought I would barf. Granted the amount of cookies I can eat to barf-hood these days are about 5, but still.
I could write about how the paragraph above bugs me mostly because I remember reading about there being a God-shaped hole in all of us when I was in Jr. High. I thought I filled that hole with God Himself when I was 14 and discovered a faith and belief and Jesus for myself. The evidence seems to point to the contrary. Maybe there are more holes in me than in the guy who wrote that quote. Who knows. I just wish I could feel fulfilled instead of this vast empty void of nothingness.
Hmmm. For not having much to write about, I wrote a lot.