Disciplinarian

I'm trying to live a more disciplined life. (very zen) But sometimes it can be so hard to do stuff that makes me feel good. I guess because it takes a minimal amount of effort and commitment. And it's easy to shirk off responsibility, to justify fucking around online all day because why bother it won't do any good. It will; I have to remind myself this daily. And I'm sick of falling into the trap of laziness.

I began meditating to quiet my mind and calm my soul. I walk around the park nearby every day to stave off restlessness--though as I look out the window right now the sky is a slab of gray and it's raining. I knit, trying out new patterns for a blanket I'll make and when my hands are idle I tend to destroy my cuticles. I write because it's my favorite outlet for anxiety. I haven't chosen a book to read yet. I will--I want one that's heavy, one that will take me far away.

The core of all my tasks is that they eat up time and the days don't drag. And if I force myself to do them everyday I hope it becomes a routine, one that I look forward to and maybe can't live without. This of course will change once I find a job but for now I have an excess of free time that must be treated like a gift rather than a burden.

Mundane rhythms

Here I am again! 10 months have passed, I started a new job, I quit, I'm unemployed again. And I'm writing because well...read the past two posts and there you go. How boring! I'm so predictable. Ah well.

The job I recently left was at a craft brewery's beer hall. It was a glorified service industry job and I certainly learned a lot. I work well under pressure. I can multitask. I am efficient. I am a quick learner. I am every single tired and overused phrase on a bad resume but I promise it's all true.

My coworkers were great but it took me about 6 months to warm up to them and 3 months later I was gone. "We'll still see each other." Buh! Empty words. Sincere, mind you. But. Coworker friendships are vital but shaky; they're built on the foundation of, well, work. Duh. I wonder if I have the energy to maintain them now that the foundation's collapsed.

I can't remember the last day I haven't had a drink. Maybe that's bad. I think about it often and rationalize away my anxiety on the quick walk from my room to the fridge.

I stopped reading books when I started this job. Work exhausted me, mentally and physically. Dishing out a false, sticky kindness to undeserving strangers requires a Herculean amount of energy. Serving the unquenchable masses for 10+ hours takes its toll. Books were an unwanted commitment that commanded too much time and energy. I only wanted to read big text accompanied with bigger pictures. A nice and easy regression. Though now my days are, once again, big, wide, and open. No better way to procrastinate figuring my shit out than reading a book.

red and raw

I hate when I feel low and awful about my life. I think about where I'm at right now: coming out of unemployment but my new job is slow to start and my days are still filled with blankness, it's the middle of winter and it's hard to motivate myself to get out there and do something, I'm in a relationship with someone I love but at times it feels unfulfilling and I can't pinpoint where it's coming from, I am still, and probably always will be, unsatisfied with my friendships/lack thereof.

I've often been...sad about my life but I've always pulled through it--talk myself out of it, go on a walk, clear my head, gain perspective. I don't know how to recognize my sadness for what it is. Simply part of my human experience or does it traipse into real and true depression?

When I think about the times I've felt most unhappy in my life I can usually boil it down to boredom and....I don't know...I imagine myself desperately grasping at things I think I need to feel happy, I see others gorge on it, and I can't wrap my fingers around anything solid. I can't hold on to anything.

Sometimes I feel like I'm floating above myself, watching every move and cringing. Sometimes I can't believe I'm here,  that I've lived all these experiences, that this is really where I'm at. It is often unsatisfying.

A life is only small if you're constantly comparing it to others. And I guess I do that and I guess I should stop. It's hard though. It's getting harder and harder to be OK with what I've got and I don't know what to do. Right now I'm wallowing and drinking and it's not great but. I'm sick of telling myself this day is almost over and you can forget it and start over tomorrow because tomorrow is the same as the day before as the day before as the day before

I like to end self-pitying rants on a somewhat positive note but it's starting to seem artificial. Fine. Whatever. I'll be fine. I know I will. It's nice to remind myself I will. It's nice to swim in these ugly sticky dank thoughts but I'll take a breath before I drown.

Write the right way

I was feeling restless, nostalgic tonight. I remembered that I used to write in a journal, I used to write fiction, I used to write a screenplay. All for school, of course. But upon rereading my old stuff that I have stored away in boxes and bins I found I wasn't as embarrassed for myself as I thought I would be. I cannot tell if this is because my ego is a tender little thing that must be gently caressed and reassured or if I'm actually a good writer. Probably a mix of both.

Lately I've been trying to come to terms with the fact that...maybe I just don't like to write. If I really wanted to be a writer, I would write. I would put in the effort, make it a priority. It's simply not. I don't know what is a priority for me right now and I often feel like I'm just floating through my life, letting things happen and not giving a damn.

My enormous problem lies in my perceptions of what the end game should be. It has always been: get published, become well known, make loads of money off of the fruits of my creative labor. A writer writes because she has to, because she wants to, because she needs to express herself. Not because she wants to make money. Wanting to make money and gain recognition are, I think, pretty natural and human expectations when one makes her creative work available to the public but it is not the guiding force and motivation.

I worry I won't ever be able to reach a point where the motivation for my writing is for me and my own emotional health and well being. Perhaps I'm limiting myself into thinking that this is some sort of natural feeling, that I can't train myself into thinking this way. Maybe I can and I'm just lazy. I always say I'll try; I never do. And I'm not sure what changes I need to make to shake myself out of this inertia.

Anxious, unemployed, happy new year

In the beginning of November I was laid off. This was a blessing, no disguise necessary. My job sucked the soul right out of me and now I'm forced to find a new one that maybe won't. My last day was right before Thanksgiving and from then on up until New Year's Eve I gave myself a holiday. I travelled lots and barely looked for jobs. It felt good.

Now the holidays are over and the emptiness of my days stretches out so far I can't see their edges. This makes me anxious. I'm a person who takes solace in plans. It comforts me to know when, where, and what I'm doing because it makes the hours where I do nothing more bearable.

There's not much structure to my days, even though I try to assemble them in one way or another. My anxiety buzzes in my ears and makes my stomach queasy. I've found it easier to take this anxiety and channel it into my relationship, giving my darkest and ugliest thoughts lots of fuel to grow.

I suppose it's not surprising I let myself go sick with worry over one of the only stable and good parts of my life. Is it because I can't let myself worry about how directionless and despondent my job search is? Is it a way of self sabotage? I feel my self esteem shrinking by the day; my insecurities swell, soon to burst. I fear I'll find some way to get out of this relationship so I can avoid fixing myself.

I also fear: losing control getting hurt feeling blindsided.

I wrote the other post I published today months ago. Of course I've still had a nagging discomfort about my boyfriend's friendship with his ex and earlier this week I turned to cheesy advice columns to help me work through it. I found a surprisingly helpful one that said you must relinquish control. You must cultivate trust. People are going to do what they want to do. People are going to do what they want to do.

When I reread the draft I thought it captured my feelings nicely; it had a hopeful ending.

I hope I don't  continue to obsess over little things, turn them into monsters, suffer greatly. I hope I can love myself enough to accept and embrace where I am right now, or at least be OK with where I am right now. I hope I can remember that I'm the only one who can make me happy and my happiness is paramount. I hope I keep writing because right now I feel calm and I want to hold on to this for as long as I can.