Where to start?
Lately I've been wondering where I am.
With all the drama happening, with my body image, with my general lack of inspiration, with my sad sorry existance, I've often caught myself considering my place in this twisted, polluted, disintegrating planet we are forced to call "home". To be honest, I'm curious about what it all means. We are all faced with hardships that may seem trivial, even pitiful, yet they are something we sometimes feel we cannot overcome. Something as simple as a disappointment can ruin my entire life plan, apparently.
Who am I to complain, anyway? I find myself depressed and "down in the dumps" repeatedly. I find myself zoning out, feeling shaky, dizzy, anxious. I am paranoid, sad, and forgetful. I am snappy. I am malicious. I am vengeful. Why am I suddenly this nasty bitch person who just wants to see another person fail on their face so that I may rise to the occasion that was swept out from under me?
I'm such a complaint. I didn't use that word correctly, but you know what I'm saying. It's this drama that's taking a wrench to my life. Why is it that I can't just bite my tongue and nod and agree? Despite my obvious shyness, submissive tendencies, and overall timid nature, I somehow have the continued audacity to question - and worse yet, defy - authority at every turn, landing myself in constant hot water. It might not be so bad if that hot water were to shed my bitter nature about the whole thing. Or if it were tea, and not plain water.
Plain. Now, that's a concept. I am frequently flipping between striving to better myself and my art (photography, writing, poetry, and most recently, makeup) and giving up on life entirely. Sometimes I am caught off guard - wind is whipping through a tree. The lily in my front yard is desperately trying to become taller and bloom. Phoenix is stretching in his sleep. My body is healing itself at a remarkable pace. At least, these little things I find remarkable, in my rose colored glasses. Other times, I see grey. I see red, black, and deep water. I feel no breath, no smile, no voice. I am speaking to someone and I don't hear myself speaking in the middle of it. I'm still going through my paces, but I'm not present half the time, it seems.
Even now, as I write this - I feel out of my body. I feel shaky, dizzy. I'm thankful that I'm lying down or I might be swaying. I look around my bedroom and see mess. I see odd items hanging around on the window ledge, my cat tree-gazing on the sill, clothing scattered on the floor. I see laziness. I see an unwillingness to tidy anything. I see my own pathetic existance in empty cups and laundry piles.
I ponder sometimes seeking professional help. I tried this last year - braved my defenses and made a doctor's appointment under the pretense of acquiring birth control for activities for my, then, boyfriend and I. I confessed my concerns to this stranger whom I'd never met before. I told her I was always sore, achy, tired, depressed. I told her I'd had these issues since high school, maybe earlier. She referred me to a blood test, which turned up non significant, and did a pap which also was non significant. After that I didn't go back to the doctor. She didn't seem concerned about my depression. She probably thought I was some dumbass teenager who was looking for free medication to get high. Honestly I don't see anything being different if I were to go back this year. Maybe she'd bother herself to do a PE this time. I don't know.
I don't really know where to turn. Should I get help? Or am I just being silly and weak? Thin-skinned?
In a sad attempt at something more, I started a beauty blog where I take pictures of myself and post them for the world to see. Sometimes I pretend that I'm pretty and that I can be one of those beautiful people who make money off their faces. It's a nice change from the everyday. Then again, I'm writing this personal blog, knowing that this is only for myself. No one reads this; I know that. I've never had a single comment. The only pageviews have been mine. Why do I even bother?
This is an online journal. I type faster than I write, and writing hurts after some time. So does typing, but not as severely, and I usually just keep going anyway. Such is life, I suppose. It hurts sometimes, but you continue pushing on, in hopes that something will happen to make it worthwhile.
As for me? We'll see.
