I’m pretty low lately, and I can’t seem to figure out why. I find myself zoning out a lot.
I’ve got this pressure built up in my stomach, like I need to get everything out into the open. I find myself wanting to scream. Scream out at the top of my lungs. I feel like I need to cry. But I have nothing worth crying over.
Has anything drastic happened in my life to make me feel this way? Nah. Not really. I hate work, this is true. But that’s not it. That’s now drawing to a close, and I’ll soon be free. It’s something else. Something deeper, something more personal.
I feel alone. Really. Fucking. Alone. Which I know makes no sense, because I spend pretty much every waking moment surrounded by people. But in my experience feeling alone in a crowded room feels exponentially worse than feeling alone in your bedroom. Coming home brings with it old memories, and I know I’m holding a lot of them in. Which, while it might not be the best thing for me, is definitely the best for those around me. People move on, and so should I.
I have this sort of self imposed rule with people. It’s a stupid rule, but if I don’t follow it I feel like I’m in some roundabout way less? So the rule is, if i invite someone to do something – go for a coffee, go watch football, whatever – twice, without them trying to rearrange, or invite me to do something, then I won’t ask anymore. Ever. Two strikes and you’re out. Not three. If they invite me to do something, then the rule resets. Why do I do this? Well, as bad as it is to feel alone, it’s worse to feel as though you’re imposing your presence on somebody else. Nobody wants to feel like that person hanging on at the cliff edge of a social setting. The person who’s there, but nobody really knows why. Anyway, the rule is slowly, one by one, eliminating everyone I know here and that’s a pretty tough realisation to take.
Being home isn’t all bad. I’ve loved what little time I’ve spent with those select few people here. I really have. Part of me wishes there was more time, but I also recognise that isn’t and won’t be the case.
I search for purpose a lot. Which is a huge part of why I feel like I hate my job. I don’t feel like I contribute anything but to increasing consumerism. But it’s hard to accept that as a friend I’m not really contributing.
I guess I’m just sad lately. It’s kind of hard to openly admit that without a plan of how to change it.
This blog is incomplete, and perhaps entirely over the top. Maybe it’s not true, but it is my reality. I don’t want to write anymore at the moment.
I need to stop listening to Paramore so much. The teenage angst is taking over my attempt at finding the positive in everything. Fuck.
Flynn
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