We talked it out. Maybe I need to calm myself, but I don’t know how. Other people must be really good at life, because they seem to be succeeded and, even, flourishing.
I don’t get it. I just cycle through panic attacks and in between (and during them), eat a ton of food. So it goes like this: wake up, moan about being awake, start to panic (heart beating fast) so I check my phone to make sure no one has tried to get ahold of me, pee, eat, panic again about the time it took me to pee and eat because I have to get to work, start driving aka constantly panicking (heart beating fast, stomach roiling, sweaty palms, racing thoughts about how everyone is a terrible driver), get to work, panic about everything from parking to the parking attendant to getting inside to sitting down without my stomach popping over my pants to whether or not the coffee creamer I like will still be there, eat second breakfast, panic about work and whether or not I can do it and how much I want to run out the door and get on a plane and fly far away, then snack. It’s now 10 am. This will continue until I attempt to fall asleep.
Day 105 – Anxiety and Coffee
Slept on the couch. Sometimes you need to get away (usually I need to get away from myself, but that’s not easy to do). This time I had to get away from someone else.
That’s what I’ve found with this (maybe all?) relationship(s) – two weeks of happiness and enjoyment followed by one night of arguing and frustration and not hearing what the other person is saying. And when I’m upset I need space. So I took space, then got angrier, then had to watch Friends to distract myself.
I felt like I was trying to share my dreams with him, and he was telling my why they didn’t work. I had to walk away from that. But was I just being dramatic? He’s allowed to have dreams and plans and wants, too. I literally feel like I never know how I’m supposed to feel.
Day 104 – Dreamin’
Spoke too soon. I didn’t even give him one day before expecting him to move on. Grief doesn’t work like that. I SHOULD KNOW!!!
I always think I’m so self-aware, too…
I can’t tell what makes sense anymore. Sadness has warped my sense of what “should” be and what reality dictates. I can’t expect kindness and understanding and sympathy when I refuse to give it out. But I can’t figure it out. I have no idea if what I’m saying makes sense or if I’m being cold and heartless.
Cold and heartless this time, I think.
Day 103 – I should know…
One day behind. I can do this…
That “one day” rapidly became 4 by the time I posted this.
Is it weird to be impacted by someone else’s news? I mean, it’s someone I love. So that probably makes sense. But I feel a split. I feel supportive and annoyed. I feel sympathetic and unsympathetic. Like, “I’m sorry this happened to you. It’s bullshit. Now pick yourself back up and fix it.”
Because once you’ve been to hell and are partway back, nothing seems that ridiculous anymore. Everything seems simple. Friend is being an asshole? So what? Fix it or end it. Hate your job? Figure out how to make it better or quit and find what you want. I know that sounds simplistic, but sometimes the simple answer is the best.
And those don’t even seem like problems to me. I feel like my heart has been dragged under a semi-truck for the last 2 years, 2 months, and 24 days. I’m not the person to complain to.
But I also love him and really do feel angry on his behalf. I really do feel like something hurtful and awful and frustrating and life-changing and painful and ridiculous happened to him but I also think that until you lose the most important person in the entire world to you, you have no idea how trivial those things are. I shouldn’t be such tough-love. He deserves sympathy. I’m not sure I have it in me.
Oh, and I’m obviously an asshole.
Day 102 – Sympathetic but not
I am ready to move forward on losing this sadness weight. Food tastes really good though, y’all.
But my pants don’t fit. And they only get so stretchy. I’d like to comfortably wear jeans. Are there people who comfortably wear their jeans? Like, they don’t have those markings on their stomach when they get home (actually, starting five seconds after putting them on)?
I have a complete outline of the design of my pants on my stomach. And these ARE the stretchy ones. So I need to fix this, fast. Is there any way I can keep eating pizza and the delicious cookie in my hand and still lose weight? Help.
Day 101 – Still sad-fat.
I’m trying really hard to like my new job. I like the people I work with. I like the parking situation. They have free coffee.
I know everyone expects me to like it. I know everyone thinks I should. I know I’ve complained about my job(s) in the past. (I complain a lot…it’s what I do. It neither makes me charming nor cute, but it’s true.) I know people who love me want me to be happy. And by happy, I mean employed. And by employed, I mean making money and having some purpose every day. And by purpose, I mean something other than writing, because I’ve gathered that no one sees that as having purpose until you’re JK Rowling, and then money talks. Right now, money isn’t talking to me. Right now, it’s a silent reminder that I have to do what everyone eventually has to do as an adult. Get a job. Make money. Get insurance on things like cars and rental apartments and my life. Dream about what kind of fence I’ll put around my yard (white picket, I’m told). Plan for retirement, when I don’t have to work this job anymore. Pick out some sort of school area I want to be in if I have kids. I’m supposed to have kids apparently. Meal prep so I can do the smart thing and save my money because eating out is a waste. Invest it so I can give it to the kids I’m supposed to have. Use the job money to buy gas for my car so I can drive to work to make more money to buy more gas. Go to bed early so I can be well rested for the job I sit at to make money so no one has to worry about me any more or wonder why I’m so useless and pathetic when they all thought I’d be somebody. Ignore all feelings of wanting to write or run away because that’s not practical. Not nearly as practical as sitting at my desk day after day and making money so I can come home too tired to remember that writing is the only thing that makes me happy. Forget about happiness so I can work because adults are supposed to have jobs they don’t like. Who am I to think I get to pursue my dream? Who do I think I am? Unless I become EL James somehow and write the masterpiece* Fifty Shades of Grey and then it’s okay that I wanted to be a writer. Then, despite the content and the quality, then it’s okay because I have the money to show for it. But until then… I should stop trying to write and be lucky I got a job.
Day 99 – Mo’ money…
I had a good day. I feel weird saying it and I don’t know if it’s true down to my core, but I had a good day. Can you have a good day when bad is how you always feel?
It’s like the opposite of a silver lining. Normally, it’s the same and I have a storm cloud of bad feelings with a tiny sliver of momentary happiness. Today was happiness “cloud” with a tiny sliver of sadness. Is it still a cloud if it’s happiness? Like a storm cloud of good omens? Can you mix all these ideas and metaphors into one thing?
Day 98 – Happy day
I spent the day helping my friend move. He has helped me move no fewer than 4 times. I have helped him move 0 times. (He’s never moved…calm self.)
I hated every damn second of it. When I moved, I had approximately 1,000,000 things to move and he helped me do it without complaining even once. He had: a bed, dresser, box of clothes, some little knickknacks, shoes in a suitcase, a few board games, and a bookshelf. You would have thought based on my annoyance and exhaustion that he had as many things as I have. Not even close. AND we had help. AND I barely did anything. I complained when he asked me to make his bed while he carried in other items from the U-haul. I sighed and moaned when I had to take the clothes out of the garment bags, and not just leave them there. I almost hyperventilated when he asked me to go through one of the boxes when I was just uselessly sitting on the floor pretending to be useful. How dare he?!?
My instinct is to blame how overall tired I am from being sad all the damn time. Sadness takes a lot out of you. I imagine it’s similar to hatred/anger. I wouldn’t know, because I feel them both simultaneously, so I can’t tell them apart. It is exhausting to be wrecked from sadness, though.
I have almost no patience for anyone or anything. I get upset when people ask things of me or expect a normal level of participation/help/being present/caring/showing up. So I “helped” my friend move but really I wanted to sleep in the corner and believe I was anywhere else, living someone else’s life.
Not moving that stupid, heavy dresser with its stupid, heavy clothes and its stupid, heavy expectations that I be normal.
Day 97 – Just be normal
I wish I could be one of those people who had sweets in their house and…not eat them. I thought I could convince myself to do that, but then I ate everything with sugar in it that I could find. And licked the wrappers. I’m fine. It’s fine.
In this never-gonna-happen scenario, dessert lasts longer than one night. Like, I make cookies and eat one tonight and maybe one tomorrow and then freeze the rest and eat some a month from now. But, like, are those people even real? I can’t do it. I’m not one of those people. I’m not. I have to eat all the cookies. Right away.
Sometimes I think – genuinely think – that people who “just aren’t into sweets” cannot be my friend. “I’m more of a salty person.” WHAT DOES THAT MEAN? DO YOU HATE YOURSELF? I love potato chips, but I will not choose them over cake. And neither should you. Unless you’re a monster.
You’re a monster, aren’t you? Well, I’ve figured out how to distinguish the sociopaths from the rest of us. Try to let them eat cake.
Day 96 – Cookie Monster
Well, I suck. What can I say? I keep missing days.
I felt good today. Useful, productive, dare I say – happy?!? I like the people at my job and the work keeps me distracted for the most part. I left work feeling like I’d actually done something with my day, had some fun interactions, and then had the evening free to do whatever I wanted (TV and food, obviously).
Am I forgetting? Am I a bad person? I felt relieved. I could breathe. Now that I realize this, it’s all gone.
Should I be grieving? Is this part of grieving?
I feel bad that I felt good. I’m ashamed.
Day 95 – Less grief, then more grief