I’ve been floating; feeling empty, husked out, drained of all effort. I just can’t “do” anymore – even if what I’ve already done wasn’t right, wasn’t good enough, wasn’t my best, it’s over for now. What that means in reality? I don’t know. The end of August is a big deadline – both my steady sources of income are going away – and nothing is on the horizon yet.
And I can’t find it in myself to care that much. I feel like an animal, watching a vehicle race toward me and dumbly waiting for the impact. Or like I’m in a barrel, racing towards a huge dropoff, and I’ve just given up hoping that I won’t shoot over the edge. It’s not a peaceful, joyful releasing of expectation – it’s blind, panic-driven hysterical exhaustion. Or that’s what it feels like. I’m wandering around, doing little chores and stuff, and ignoring what feels like my impending doom.
I watched Midnight in Paris last night with a friend. We were talking about Woody Allen’s character ‘types’, the way they are so verbose about their neurosis and are neurotic about *everything*!! When we were talking, I couldn’t really relate to that level of neurosis, but I may have been wrong. Maybe I think my neurosis is less severe because I’m neurotic about “important” things only. Whatever those important things are. So now here’s a heaping helping of crow, sitting on the table to be eaten.
I am always second-guessing myself, even if I don’t let on to other people. I try to appear so confident and decision, so in control – like I know what I’m doing and am making good decisions. If that were true, wouldn’t I be employed by now? Wouldn’t my career and financial stability be on track? Wouldn’t I have at least some idea of what my daily life will look like in 6 weeks? Wouldn’t I be making a better overall showing of being human?
But there’s the rub. In reading Karen Armstrong’s “12 Steps to a Compassionate Life”, I realized yet again that I really don’t like being “human”. I don’t like all those foibles, inconsistencies, the pettiness and forgetfulness, the lies and hidden things, the grossness and crudity, the worry and anger and sadness and dissatisfaction, the endless rejection, judging, and rejecting, the disappointment and disillusionment, any of it. I hate all of it.
Why would we ever choose this? Why would we ever want to subject ourselves to this misery? What could possibly make all this suffering worthwhile? In my life, I’m not sure I’ve experienced anything that’s made me feel like it’s worth it to be here – to be incarnated in this body, at this time. Looking at my life as an observer, I seem like a whining, ungrateful, unappreciative piece of shit. My problems are so small compared to the suffering of the world, what right do I have to be unhappy?
