I have come to regard my writing as an indicator of how I feel.
I haven't written in weeks.
The second and third parts of the trip lie in my draft folder, unfinished and unsatisfying. I've promised emails and letters and postcards, but those are either nonexistent or blank pages or one-sided pictures.
Sure, I've written things. Things I had to turn in for a grade, things bureaucracy demanded. But not things I wanted to write, things no one made me write.
I'm sitting here, sick again, with a pounding headache and nothing but the longing to go to sleep, like I've done all weekend and yearned to all week. I have worked without a moment's respite for weeks on end, and it is starting again tomorrow.
I miss my family, I miss France, I miss the past, the future, I miss all sorts of things I can't have. I miss The Boy, whom I won't see until March and haven't seen since August fourth, I miss my little cousin, whom I pushed around in her pram and is now entering sixth grade, with whom I have spent a total of two months in the past six years. I miss people I won't ever see, people who've forgotten me.
I feel like I can't do anything right, like I'm not dependable anymore or even never really was, like I whine too much and annoy people constantly.
I tried to think of something happy, to play the Glad Game, but for once there was nothing.
I guess life just is ordinary sometimes. Sometimes, there isn't anything exciting.
I have trouble accepting that.
Some part of my brain, the logical and analytical part, tells me that the sheer number of times I've used "I" in this post is enough to give last year's Psychology professor a field day, that I really ought to do something about it. That part gives me advice, like I give advice to people all the time, but I won't follow it because, overall, I am a hypocrite and never follow my own advice.
I haven't written in weeks.
The second and third parts of the trip lie in my draft folder, unfinished and unsatisfying. I've promised emails and letters and postcards, but those are either nonexistent or blank pages or one-sided pictures.
Sure, I've written things. Things I had to turn in for a grade, things bureaucracy demanded. But not things I wanted to write, things no one made me write.
I'm sitting here, sick again, with a pounding headache and nothing but the longing to go to sleep, like I've done all weekend and yearned to all week. I have worked without a moment's respite for weeks on end, and it is starting again tomorrow.
I miss my family, I miss France, I miss the past, the future, I miss all sorts of things I can't have. I miss The Boy, whom I won't see until March and haven't seen since August fourth, I miss my little cousin, whom I pushed around in her pram and is now entering sixth grade, with whom I have spent a total of two months in the past six years. I miss people I won't ever see, people who've forgotten me.
I feel like I can't do anything right, like I'm not dependable anymore or even never really was, like I whine too much and annoy people constantly.
I tried to think of something happy, to play the Glad Game, but for once there was nothing.
I guess life just is ordinary sometimes. Sometimes, there isn't anything exciting.
I have trouble accepting that.
Some part of my brain, the logical and analytical part, tells me that the sheer number of times I've used "I" in this post is enough to give last year's Psychology professor a field day, that I really ought to do something about it. That part gives me advice, like I give advice to people all the time, but I won't follow it because, overall, I am a hypocrite and never follow my own advice.
4 comments:
Sometimes writing for pleasure is such a chore because I want to enjoy it and that places a burden on me that writing for work just doesn't.
Hope things turn round soon.
I'm a man. I know I'm supposed just to listen and not make suggestions. So I won't. But I will tell you that you are not alone. We have all felt like that at some time. The one thing I do know is that eventually you will come out of it and wonder what it was all about. That carried me though on a number of occasions. In the meantime you can play the Glad Game. You are talented. You are clever. You are fluent in at least two languages and cultures. You have food on your plate, wine in your glass and friends to share it with. OK so life's shit at the moment. But just think how many people have a shit life and not a single one of your good fortunes.
I know that didn't make you feel any better and, now that you've scraped whatever it was you threw at me off the computer screen, smile. That way the endorphines will help a little.
I have a badge that says "Take my advice - I'm not using it".
Hope things get exciting - in the right sort of way - before too long.
I relate to so much of what you said in this post. I feel lately like I do nothing but whine and that people around me are just tired of it.
Also, I miss the people I haven't seen in 7 years. The cousins I haven't met before, the cousins whose husbands I've never met before... whose daughters I've never met before. Not a part of their world anymore but also feeling like I'm not a part of mine.
At least you know you're not alone in the feeling. If that helps at all.
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