Misery

No Complaints

Ever since I passed that test so that I could keep my job and my mammogram came back positive for weird lumps, but negative for malignancy, I have had a hard time finding anything to complain about.  I wake up in the morning, and I’m not horrified of becoming unemployed, homeless and/or orphaning my child.  I don’t really wake up in cold sweats in the middle of the night anymore.  I don’t walk around carrying the weight of the world on my soul.  I kind of don’t know what to do myself now.  I mean, worrying is kind of what I do.  I was born this way.  And it’s a part of who I am.  Who else would have stayed in a job with no stability for two and a half years?  Most people would have taken the initiative to find alternate employment after the first couple of months.  Not this girl.  It’s almost like the torture of the unknown, and the prospect of dismal uncertainty kept me going.  For two and a half years. 

And the boob thing.  That couldn’t have been more perfect for a compulsively disturbed.  How is a GIANT lump in your right breast not the perfect gift for someone predisposed to neurosis?  It was perfect.  I could envision myself dying with so much unresolved.  I was never going to see my child grow into the wonderful human being I know he will be.  I was never going to know true love.  I was never going to get published.  I would have been a victim of life’s cruel game.  It was  textbook fate for the chronic pessimist.  But that was a farce.  It’s just a fibrocystic condition.  It’s cool.  I don’t really date that much.  Essentially, it will have very little impact on my life. 

So now what? 

What happens when you feed off of uncertainty and you have nothing out of the ordinary to feel uncertain about?  What do you do when you become accustomed to fearing the inevitable, when the inevitable doesn’t manifest into anything?  What happens then? 

I’ll tell you.  You find things to worry about.  You find a means of feeling panicked.  You find things to consume your thoughts.  After everything cleared up, the first thing I did was start to pine over all of my previous failures.  ALL OF THEM.  Two jobs, one marriage, four friendships, high school volleyball.  Nothing is off limits when you are determined to feel like an asshole.  I beat myself up for being a terrible friend, mother, daughter, employee.  And to ice the cake of sorrow with pity, I delved REALLY deep into the failure with the LOVE OF MY LIFE.  Who of course, NEVER loved me back.  I was pretty engaged in self destruction.  I was relatively certain I deserved it.  There’s no way that the life I have led deserved anything less that wallowing in perpetual misery.  And if nothing, I’m dedicated. 

Misery is really exhausting.  But it’s habit. 

So now what?  Really.  What?

I was exhausted with misery, but I didn’t think I deserved anything better.  So, I was kind of torn.  There were hundreds of options, but the two that stood out most in my mind were these:  1.)  Be miserable.  2.)  Don’t.  I really have no idea where I’m at in the decision making process.  But I do know this.  The people around me are amazing.  And if I want to keep amazing people in my life, I should probably not try to exhaust them with my misery.  So, thank you dear friends who love me and understand me and remind me that I am not as miserable as I want to be.  Thank you to all the people who remind me the value of happiness, even if I don’t want to be.  THANK YOU to the people I love who, for some reason think I am worth loving back.  While I do enjoy basking in my own dismay, I enjoy laughing with the people I love even more.  Thank you for reminding me where to find my inner peas. 

PS  I’ll probably be hateful and miserable again tomorrow.  Thanks for understanding.