I was lurking around the Twitterverse a little while back and wasting time, as is my want when work is slow and dull, when I saw a post of epically dumb proportions.
I’ve spent most of my life swallowing anger until it fermented into a unique blend of sad, bitter, and isolated – suggested pairings are spoonfuls of Nutella straight from the jar and wearing pajamas for over 24 hours.
It should come as no surprise to anyone who has read anything I’ve written that I have a regular appointment with a therapist. Well, in one of these recent regularly scheduled appointments I had a bit of a revelation. I am not good at love. I don’t love people the way you should and I don’t let them love me back (don’t make that dirty). I don’t suppose I ever really learned how or tried to learn. Honest, open love requires vulnerability and that is terrifying. So much can go wrong when you open yourself completely to someone. There are so many ways to hurt someone or to get hurt by someone in this world.
Movies and music are pretty powerful in that they can evoke memories. Sometimes it’s a lot like a magic spell. They take you traveling to the past, your past. And sometimes it’s a good past with warm memories and loving thoughts. Sometimes it’s a dark past with unpleasant events. But the good thing is you can control it by either turning off the tv or the radio. Sometimes I like to go to those dark places, either because I feel like being sad (I know sometimes you just need to mope though) or just to have a good cry. Crying can be incredibly cathartic.
I see the blue veins just under the skin, that are getting a little more pronounced – a fact I try to ignore is due in part to aging. And then I notice IT – glaring out as though it were an odd eyeball that just opened.
It’s bad when I decide to get out of the house and head to a coffee shop (any coffee shop), but when I get there I don’t talk to anyone and spend every last second feeling like every set of eyes is on me.
Writing is hard – especially when you aren’t doing it. I should have been writing this whole evening after I got home from work. I had every intention to get some thoughts down, some outlines laid out, some stories started, etcetera, etcetera, Peter etCetera.
Boy, has it been a while since I’ve been on here. I’ve been busy finding myself (turns out I was hiding in the couch cushions the whole time (I’m so sorry for that, please forgive me)). And maybe it wasn’t that I was busy finding myself but finding my way through and maybe just a little bit afraid of all the things I wrote before. I even thought maybe I should just delete this and start all over with another blog but screw it. My habit of quitting things because they aren’t perfect is something I need to break.
I got a new job. I started last week. It’s a manager position. That’s something to get excited about. So why have I come home every night and gone straight to bed to sleep off a headache, or grabbed so much food that I know I’ve eaten myself a little closer to death, or tried desperately to avoid writing this (or anything)?
The old adage “Money can’t buy happiness” repeats in my head quite often these days. I’m on the search for a new job to do the same thing I was doing to keep making money to be secure to keep doing the same thing I was doing (rinse, repeat). But what about happiness? I used to think that adage was, quite frankly, bullshit. Rich people can be unhappy. But that’s because they caught up in rich people drama.