Today has not been a great day, and not in one of those “everything is going wrong” kind of a days, but in a “my thoughts are trying to belittle everything I do” kind of day.
First of all, dealing with this for me is a very private thing, and having people ask me if I’m alright does not make me feel like I’m supported. It makes me feel are being condescending and pretentious jerks for asking because they can tell I’m not in a good mood. Its days like this when I feel like I’ve fallen into an old dried up well that I cannot escape from. Full of mold, damp and dark, I almost want to be left here to wallow in my negative thoughts for a while.
Why? Because I trust those thoughts. I do better believing the thoughts that I’ll never achieve anything I want to because I wasn’t as smart as my friends in college. My thoughts are slowly picking each other apart. The dark fabric of each one slowly disintegrating only to be reformed into darker thoughts.
Then there is that one slightly happy one that says, “Hey you’re just having a bad day. You’ll be fine. Just keep your chin up.”
Well you know what? I hate the other voice. I can’t stand the optimism because how can I believe in it? Nothing I have done has come close to the goals I had set for myself.
Maybe because I’m too hard on myself. I don’t think so, but people tell me that a lot. I think it’s a completely thing to say because if I wasn’t this hard on myself I would be more of a passive underachiever than I am already.
I like to say that I write to keep myself sane (which is partially true), but nothing ever comes from it other than looking back on it and thinking I should be better. Nothing that I have written is original and inspiring. They’re ghosts of my own experiences that I’ve twisted until I could stand to face them in a way that I was in control. Writing is the ultimate was to gain control.
Yet, I have none over my own life. I say I’m applying for Master’s programs, but apart from finding the schools I haven’t done anything beyond that. Because I know my writing is weak. I don’t want people looking at it because I’d rather act like Queen of Writing instead of having to actually defend my work and potentially have someone read it.
I’m such a coward: I can’t even let my husband read my stuff because I feel he’ll see that my writing is nothing more than a way to escape reality. It’s worked well my whole life, so why stop running now?
This is what happens when I fall down the well. Negativity and bitterness run rampant without cause or explanation.
At least my kitten is sitting on my lap while I write this. I can take a little comfort in that.