There are things I don’t want to tell you.
read more ↓I don’t want to tell you that this week broke me down. It seems dumb to follow such a great weekend with such a crappy week, and it also seems dumb to allow the week to be crappy when I’ve been doing all this work to learn how to connect to the good feelings and eschew all the bad… but. But sometimes it gets to be a little too much and I just need to give in.
I don’t want to tell you that I spent yesterday feeling more emotional than a pregnant woman, crying off and on from the moment I woke up to the moment I went to bed. And although it felt good to get it all out, by the same token it made me feel like a sissy. Like I was giving up by giving in, rather than embracing it as a release.
I don’t want to tell you that in response to my emotions and the hand that life has dealt me as of late, I turned off my phone and curled up on the couch to alternate between watching reruns of Angel and sleeping. I took a break from both to make myself comfort food in the form of lentil coconut soup, and had one small bowl before drifting off to dreamland again. Except I didn’t dream.
I don’t want to tell you that as I walked with a friend from Venice to the Santa Monica pier, I suggested that we just jump in the ocean and swim, and not stop until we got to Japan. And I kinda meant it.
I don’t want to tell you that I wonder if I’m a failure. That maybe I’m trying to force myself to fit into a career that I’m not meant to have. That the thought of that fills me with great sorrow, and yet I have no idea what else I would possibly do. Because this is all I’ve ever done. And it’s all I’ve ever wanted to do. But still… could it be possible that I’ve been wrong all these years?
I don’t want to tell you that, in my miraculous ability to have 20/20 hindsight, I know exactly how I got here. And I’m trying to remedy that. But I feel like the universe is throwing up blocks at every turn that I try and take to make my situation better. Which makes me wonder what in the hell I’m supposed to do… because sitting here and waiting things out seems so ineffective. And kind of seems like what I did to get here in the first place.
I don’t want to tell you that I don’t know what to write here anymore. That I worry about sharing too much or too little, especially after something I wrote here inadvertently hurt someone’s feelings. I may write for myself first, but I don’t write with an eye for hurting someone else. And when I do, it makes me triple guess what’s publishable and what’s not.
I don’t want to tell you that I’m still in my pajamas at one in the afternoon.
I don’t want to tell you that I’m human, and I still experience bad days, and everything’s not perfect, and there are things that I long for that feel just out of reach, and I wonder if there’s a point, and I sometimes don’t know where I’m going or what I’m doing, and I sometimes find it easier to hide behind a veneer of happiness and light rather than admit all these things.
And yet, somehow I feel that having a week where I sit on the couch and watch Angel and eat soup and cry when I need to goes a million miles towards getting me where I want to be, rather than taking me in the opposite direction.
So that’s what I’m gonna do.
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