My blogs have been scarce lately which usually means I’m doing super okay just chugging along with no existential strife to whine about, or I’ve given up on something I know I’m good at to head into survival mode. I’m surviving, baby.
I’ve been researching my personality type like crazy (even though the research shows its often flawed) because it’s the best validation I can get for being the person I am. It’s so silly how I internalize things with such gusto I feel like the negative thoughts become a knot in my tummy, a cloud over my head, a tightness in my chest. I’m scared of this little anxiety baby gestating inside of me. I often try to name this red-faced feeling that comes over me like I’m in 3rd grade and I’ve peed in my plastic school chair. I feel so little.
Lately, I can’t identify anything I’m good with or at, or anything I feel good about. In writing this sentence I’m like welp that’s a classic depression diagnosis if I’ve ever heard one. But, it’s not that, or I don’t want it to be that. I have meaning. I exercise. I meet goals. I eat healthy. I engage in service work. I think it’s the experience of growing up and seeing my own insignificance in the world, the ever present existential crisis that takes up much of my critical thought. I am not a student services professional. I’m not an adjunct college professor. I’m not a yogi. I’m a grain of sand, a speck of dust, a mound of flesh.
I try to find the special life glitter, the allure, the feeling of a kiss with someone who’s energy is like liquor to the soul. But those special moments aren’t there. They come fleeting in the completion of a ten mile run, or a smile from a child, maybe a really good meal or the way the sky looks in Wyoming. Perhaps because I cannot see it I can talk of it and I seek out folks who I know will go there in deep conversation and the universe keeps sending the message—it doesn’t matter. None of this matters. Stop dreaming of glitter and rip up some tin foil. Life is what you make it.
I feel like a burden to folks around me and set up this awful cycle where I need so badly to be alone and with myself during the times I’m not at work where I’m constantly around people. I need some time to seep in the people, let the people tea leaves steep in the water of my mind before I can slowly consume the tea. This is meaning, this is how I process life. But when the time comes to be social or let someone into my life—I am all alone. I marvel at folks with roommates or in volleyball leagues or those who go shopping or camping in more than groups of two. I feel my mind go into a tiny world war at the thought of being more social and yet the war continues at the thought of feeling so very alone.
This blog won’t end with some shit about how it will all get better or pray to gawd and receive solace because I know both these things to be true. They will help. I also know that shit might not get better and I could turn my back on gawd and wouldn’t matter. This is the critical mass, the point, where I can choose to create meaning or choose to know whatever meaning I create is inherently meaningless. Fuck it. I’m eating chicken wings.
“No matter how many years you sit doing zazen, you will never become anything special.” ~ Sawaki