I have experienced irrational rage at the notion that I’m going to be ok for longer than I think I’ve even understood. When I was little, it seemed like no one was understanding how bad things were. When I was young, it seemed like no one could understand what I was coming up against. JUST VERY RECENTLY, it seemed like no one cared how hard I would have to work even to just become a functional human who could pay rent and bills. The fact they could sit there and just tell me I was going to be ok drove me insane. Because some people aren’t ok. They don’t get better. What if I was one of those people and I just got to live my life crashing towards some terrible future smearing my soul on everyone I touched on the way down… an increasingly darker and less worthy soul because obviously… for it kept falling… If they could tell me I was going to be ok… they must have thought I was like them. With different access to different resources…
What if because I had monumentally misjudged how hard I would have to work in order to overcome a number of barriers in my way… what if I misjudged everything about myself and was capable of falling all the way to the worst possible future I ever could have had?
Everything seemed insurmountable. Doubly so because I would like to be so much more than a person that pays the rent and bills. I’d like to be a person that does amazing things like juggling festivals and going various kinds of dancing. Unfortunately … to do those specific things I kinda need to have a few things first. In another realm of possibility… I’d like to be a kind of person that can have a greater effect on an area … like a community planner or a consulting planner. I want to make the world a better place. To do that I need to be more than a human that pays rent and bills. I need to be a human that pays debt and saves.
But I am an amazing person if I don’t get that done… I don’t *have* to change the world. Its not my job and by god if it were my job THEY WOULD BE MAKING IT EASIER.
I can still paint and hoop and juggle and know that I know how to ride a bike in traffic. I can still cook and write. I can write damning things about a society I feel has economically limited me such to be deprived of what good I could give it… And maybe they find those writings hundreds of years later and name an intellectual theory after me. I can still draw. I can still sing. I could probably skin a rabbit, having seen once how to joint one and having been very good at removing skin from rats in dissection labs.
I will carry these with me always. No matter what I’m doing. I have carried them through languishing while thinking that because I had no future I could see clearly, that there was no point in doing anything at all… possibly living at all.
And if I’m worried that I’m going to get mired in a dead end job that pays my bills but barely and I never amount to more than that…
I’ll still be all those things I said were cool and worthwhile.
And I’ll probably have money to go dancing and a juggling festival or two a year.
If you break down a problem enough… it turns out… it will become manageable. I … just have to get over the hurt. And the pain that I might never be what I want to be…. oddly enough… so that I can possibly be what I’d like to be in the future by being what I am in the present… Because I haven’t been BEING. I’ve been languishing.
If I’m real with myself, whatever medical problems I used as my excuse to leave the ice without guilt… they were mental. Being there exacerbated my mental state about my own income inequality and place in life. This is something to ear mark for later introspection because I’m sensing that’s a big issue. If I can’t be around people who (SEEM TO BE) having an easier time than I am… what does that say about me? Not good things. But that’s for later.
The next ten minutes is about feeling good about the very small steps I’m going to take. Knowing I will take them and that I will always have these things about myself that I like.
I wonder if part of what had to happen was for me to acknowledge that my feelings about my life are extreme things and to give them some words in the last post I made.
Or maybe my meds are just working better. Though taking them… five hours late because you spent the night thinking and writing is perhaps less than ideal.
… Maybe I really do have boarderline personality disorder and this is just an ‘up’ era that was a long time coming.
Either way I’m getting my health taken care of in a VARIETY of ways. Mental and otherwise. It just takes some time to get into appointments. Probably the first thing would be to call and ask to be put on the cancellations list again.