So I've been very, very, VERY angry lately. At everyone. And yes, that unfortunately means I've been pissed off at you, too.
Every single thing has been driving me into a frenzy of anger. Innocuous Facebook posts ["Hey, friend, I've missed you" not directed at me? FUCK YOU, I HATE YOU, TOO]; the person who decides to brake at a yellowish light rather than go through deserves the fires of a thousand suns burning their colon; the fact that the old woman trying to return something ahead of me in line isn't understanding the return process means that she should rot in hell. Her and the cashier.
Basically, I've been walking around saying, "I fucking hate everyone, fucking stupid life, fucking stupid world."
I was in the midst of muttering this one day when I freaked myself out by asking, "But do you, do you really?"
And I realized I DON'T actually hate everyone or my life or even this stupid world [much]. [I often have conversations with myself. It's part of my charm.]
It had just become such a mindset that I was stuck in that rut.
Seriously. How awful is that to realize that that level of hatred was my default? So awful.
The problem then became what do I do about it? Because while there are things about my life I'd like to improve, for the most part, I like my life. I like my house, I like my husband, I like my kid, I like my friends, I like my job. And the things I'm unhappy with I'm working on, bit by bit. I'm starting to feel o.k. about stuff. In theory.
Because in reality, I was still very WTF is wrong with me?
Introspection is a difficult thing. Even for someone who is SO VERY MUCH into herself as me. So I did what every person does when presented with a dilemma: I had a Tarot Card reading.
Johanne, who I met through Twitter, does Skype Tarot Card readings, and I find that they really help me figure out what the fuck is happening with me when I feel stuck. It's mystical therapy. Plus, she has this French Canadian accent that is like a balm on my tortured soul. It's a delight.
So I talked to her and realized that the problem is that I was putting too many eggs in my work basket. I thought that having a job I enjoyed would make me feel fulfilled. I come from a mother who is the epitome of Type A workaholic, I married a workaholic, and I very much identify who I am with what I do. Right or wrong [and probably wrong] there is a huge part of me that feels like my worth is determined by my work. It doesn't have to be paying work - I'm a huge fan of volunteering - but it does have to be what I consider important. I need to feel like I'm if not saving the world, than at least making it a better place. And I need to feel like I'm utilizing my skills.
Talking to Johanne helped me realize that I'm not making the most of my skills. I need to focus more on my writing, which I'm doing. Hence the more frequent blog posts. But also I need to stop being such a fucking coward and write my truth - whether that means completing my novel or my memoir. Or both. And not be so goddamn terrified that finishing either one of them is the end of my world. Because what if I finish and they stink? What if I can't get them published? What if people mock or deride me for thinking I have anything worth saying that anyone could possibly want to hear?
I need to ignore that question, because I'm not quite ready enough to flip it and go with the What If positives.
But I'm getting there.