When you least want to talk about something is probably the time that you most need to talk about it. When you most need help, you're the least likely to ask for it. This is not me asking for help. The only person who can help me is myself, so let's all hold our breath until that happens. Wait...maybe not. I don't want to be responsible for any untimely suffocations.
Everything I do is wrong. Every decision I make is the wrong one. I know logically that this can't be the case, but somehow it feels like it. Lately I've been feeling like that more and more. I know I should take steps to fix things or to make myself feel better, but seems like it isn't worth it. Nothing I've ever done to try and solve a problem has ever worked, so why keep trying?
There are new photos of me on Everyone's Favorite Time-waste and I look fat. I think it's a gyp that I got all of the depression symptoms EXCEPT the loss of appetite. Shit, it'd be worth being miserable all the time if it made me skinny.
I didn't finish my college apps. I still have to rewrite an essay and I can't muster the bare minimum of self-esteem to write positive things about my life so far.
I stopped seeing Ten Hut because he wasn't nice enough to me. I can't be nice to myself, so someone has to make up the difference. He didn't have that capacity. Probably no one does, when it comes down to it.
I'm broke. Again. I resolved to make more money this year and so far exactly the opposite has happened. Short of banging some old rich dude, or picking up even more teaching (just to make myself a little more tired and stressed), I have no idea how to increase my income.
Everything, in a word, sucks. And before you remind me, gentle reader, I'm aware that these are all first-world, middle-class, white girl problems. No one has cut off my clitoris with a rusty pair of scissors or married me off at the age of twelve. No one has forced me to become a child soldier. I didn't contract flukeworms from wading in a filthy rice paddy ten hours a day. I'm not working in a sweat shop or being sold as a sex slave. I recognize that there are a great many people with far suckier lives than mine. For some reason, this doesn't make me feel any better. It actually makes me feel worse because it highlights how selfish and pathetic I am.
The only thing that keeps me getting up and going to class and going to practice and functioning like a normal human being is that I know if I let myself fall all the way down, it would be that much harder later on. It would be more work to reapply to school if I dropped out at this point. It would be harder to find a job if I blew off the jobs I have right now. If I don't practice I'll just get fatter and feel worse about myself. It's this interesting little catch-22...keep going, feel terrible. Give up, feel worse later on. You can see why some days I think it might be easier to just gulp down a bottle of aspirin with a Grey Goose chaser. Except that's another half-assed thing. Technically, that would be a para-suicidal gesture. "Successful" suicides are a lot more likely to use a means with no grey areas, like a gun, or jumping off a height. Para-suicidal folks cut their wrists or pop a bunch of pills because they don't really mean it. They'll try over and over again but they always make a call at the last minute, always leave themselves a stop-gap. That would be me. I don't actually want to die, I just don't have much interest in living any more.
If you think about it, I don't have that much to live for. My family is on the other side of the world, they're doing OK without me. My friends would just think I moved back to the motherland or something. It'd be like sneaking out in high school. You tell your mum you're coming to my house, I'll tell my mum I'm going to your house, and we'll have an awesome time at the party with no one worrying about us. No one would even notice I was gone.
But what about work and school and performing and teaching and all those wonderful things, you ask? What about them? Gee, I've done such a stellar job with my amazing career, haven't I? I spent the weekend prancing about for the entertainment of a bunch of nicotine-riddled diabetic senior citizens at a casino in the asshole of America. Aren't you impressed and jealous? School...well, let's see. I go to an open-admission school for idiots, fuck-ups, and former addicts. I can't even get it together to apply somewhere else, much less get myself a scholarship so it doesn't bankrupt me to get a degree. Assuming that by some miracle, I did actually transfer and graduate, what would I do then? Be a teacher? Go to grad school? I wouldn't be able to make up my mind. Either way, I'd still be broke and doing a shitty job of whatever it was I fell into doing. And teaching...well, the kids would miss me until someone else came to take my place. Hopefully they'd remember some good things that I taught them, like pointing their toes and being brave enough to try things and persistent enough to keep trying until it works.
When I teach, I am the person I wish I was in the rest of my life. It's the only time when I know what the right thing to do is, and the only time I know I'm doing something good and worthwhile.
I'm sitting here, crying. I have six pages of Descartes to read, and about 25 pages of Montaigne's essays. The classes for which they were assigned won't transfer, so in the grand scheme of things, there's really no point in stressing about getting the reading done. I might as well just stop bothering and let myself have shitty grades to go with my shitty everything else.
I'm waiting for it, the thing that finally pushes me over. That one final straw to break the camel's back. I hope it comes soon. I want to be done. I want it all to be over.
No comments:
Post a Comment