It’s been a hard day. A hard week. And it’s not over yet.
2 more days of Christmas. One more week of holidays. One more year to kiss goodbye in which I didn’t “pull myself up by the bootstraps” and “get back on the horse” and “take the bull by the horns” and all those other bullsh*t anti-motivators that mysteriously haven’t rescued me from my chosen (right?) anguish.
Yeah, it’s one of those days. There’s no place to go, no book to read, no show to watch, no project to undertake ... that could sufficiently distract me from the pain that I’m feeling.
If I were a drug addict, I’d be high as a kite right now, but I’m too chickensh*t to go that hardcore.
So I sit with it.
Despair creeps in through the cracks, the same ones hope is seeping out of.
It might have something to do with the seventy-ninth (if I want to exaggerate I’ll f***ing exaggerate) job I couldn’t make it at, and the ensuing disgust with myself for adding to my quit-list this week.
It might have something to do with my refusal to participate in family events this holiday season, and my rejection of *things* in place of love.
You aren’t supposed to be weary at 30, are you? I mean, really. I’m not talking about exhaustion; that was 5 years ago when I was 25 going on 40, dead weight dragging through the days.
I’m weary of 1-being me and 2-hating me.
I’m weary of life, and the suffocating alienation of being unseen. And yet, in premise, invisibility sounds so liberating...
I’m weary of reaching out to people who don’t reach back, though I know it is my very nature to give the most to people who are incapable of giving another human being what they need.
I’m tired of people who don’t try, who don’t change, who don’t care. They drain my soul.
I’M tired of trying, of changing mySELF, of caring. It drains my soul even more.
I’m tired of the questions-
The requirements of life-
Where will I go and what will I do and who will I be and what is the point?
“Tonight at the end of light
Tonight I feel lonely
I thought I heard my heart stop beating
I long for you to hold me.”
An Alli Rogers song creeps in (and I’m not even a Christian for cripes sake).
I could go cry in the back pew of a raggedy church.
I could thrown myself down in the aisle and scream, “Why?” to a god I don’t believe in.
I guess we all have the same questions, and the lucky ones are able to find solace in someone else’s answers.
But when there’s no comfort in faith, in friends, in family, in love ... is there any true comfort to be found at all?
Or just emptiness...