I have written this letter hundreds of times. Never sent.
I don’t know where the line is between when I should just suck it up and keep going and when it’s time to complain. I don’t know why those two things are seen as mutually exclusive. I’m still soldiering on after many vocal complaints. Both can exist at the same time, I think.
To paraphrase a great man, am I miserable because I complain, or do I complain because I am miserable? I would also like to know if I’m being fair, or am just some negative nancy. You don’t capitalize the ‘n’ in “negative nancy,” no sir.
Why can I simultaneously know, to paraphrase another great man, that there are over a billion people who, if they were to trade places with me, would consider themselves saved, and also just hate who I have grown up to be? I mean, Christ almight, read that last sentence. This is bad goth poetry. Why don’t I just get on my fucking feet, stand up, and do something about it? I have so many ideas for ways I could do this. But I won’t, because I’m terrified, because of some things that happened last time I did. Poor me.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m trying. I’m bettering myself. Exercising. Learning new skills. Practicing old ones. I’m moving forward. It’s so embarrassing to even say that though, of course. I sound like I’m at a parole hearing. Just trying to justify my own existence, pay no mind. I apologize for it.
When I think of who I am, I see a worm trying to wiggle its way out from under a thumb, insisting that he is important.
I wasn’t always like this. But some stuff happened and it was just a little stuff too much. To explain what I mean by that, I would have to tell you my entire life story. Which, it turns out, is really not so bad. And yet, here I am. Trying so hard to dig myself out of a stupid hole after everybody already left and hey idiot you can’t dig your way out of a hole. Right, so we’re climbing now. But my body feels like it weighs hundreds of pounds more than I can repeat. I jump once, grab, hold, fall. One foothold. Over and over.
And the answer is so simple, and I know it. Get off my ass and go live my life… whatever the fuck that even means.
If you find this language and negativity exhausting you should know that I’m right there with you on that.
Yes I have a therapist. I am still having a hard time getting convinced that I am worthwhile. The facts about myself tell me that he is wrong. I’m open to debate.
I know that I am capable of living and feeling something else. I’m trying. It’s hard to like a lot of things, but I’m trying. I still believe that hope is the truth and that cynicism is a lie. Or at least hope is equally plausible. Maybe. Or maybe life is just this hopeless dredge and existence is suffering and joy is a righteous act of rebellion against that fact.
So, like I said, trying.
I’m putting this out there because I need to know I’m not the only one who feels like life is just smiling while getting dragged across the pavement. I want to feel a little less alone. I need a true story of somebody who used to feel this way that doesn’t anymore, if you’ve got one to spare.
I have a feeling that a lot of other people could use it too.
I have not quit.
If you say something. I’ll see you. Thanks.