Optimist. It is a word some people would use to describe me. I would use it to describe me. I try to look on the bright side of things. It is easy to do, being born on home plate, other people having already done the hard work to round the bases for me. Despite all the goodness, however, there cannot just be all Sunshine and Rainbows and Cats.
You should probably stop reading here unless you want to be bored. Today I am writing for catharsis, and clicking publish to demonstrate that happy internet lives are often fraud.
My knee hurts for absolutely no reason except that it comes from the mid 1970s. I dislike driving cars, driving in cars, all things automobile. Thumbs down. People talk about politics too much: politics should clean your house, not handle your domestic disputes. A medication I am taking ruins my memory and I have to take notes all day long just to remember what I wanted to do and say. Also, yesterday was a drag.
Peaks and valleys are part of the human experience and, I suspect, the universal experience. We expand, we contract. Sunday was a peak, and it was what I tried to write about yesterday but could not (see: drag). Sunday was like a fairy tale, except the part where there is struggle. Once upon a Sunday they all lived happily ever after. Then Monday happened.
The last couple years have been the hardest of my life, but not because of bad things. On the contrary, by almost any common human measure, my life is swell. Better than swell.
It is my mind, my consciousness, that has made it a challenge. I struggle to find peace inside of my head. I have tried: meditation, journaling, yoga, therapy, psychiatry, music, herbal supplements, psychedelics, philosophy, spirituality, exercise, sunshine, Mediterranean diet, walks, swimming, travel, not travel, in-patient facilities where we did group therapy morning noon and night. The only thing that gets me through is "Fake it till you make it," in which I just keep on faking it with the promise of being better always around the corner. My next post will be another one of me faking it through my fairy tale Sunday. This whole fucking blog is me faking, if we are being honest.
I question the point, you know, if the whole thing is so uncomfortable that I cannot relax. Spending 16-22 hours per day with a mind on vigilant watch for all the things is an unpleasant experience. And that is so hard for me to admit.
There is so much that could go wrong for me that has not. Both my children are safe and sound, my husband is a wonderful creature who helps me in so many ways, my whole extended family is loving and generous and kind. I suspect my cushy modern life, which I cling to, is mostly to blame. If I was running from a bear I would not have time to ruminate. If I was starving to death I would be killing a ruminant (to eat it, you know).
As I write this I can feel a future me, reading, and being like, "you spoiled little asshole. You had it so good and you just couldn't bear it. Cry me a river." Okay, back to the regular programming.
Comments