Day 106 of 365: I’m so fucking sick of writing.

*trigger warning for those struggling with depression/suicidality*

If I have to hear myself talk about addiction or sobriety or healing or authenticity one more fucking time, I will scream. And hide in the mountains somewhere.

I am so bored by myself, and by what I write. As if I’m some pro on emotions and self-healing. I’m not. I’m just as confused as the rest of the world. I’m just as sad as I was before my 3.5 years of deep healing work; the difference is that I can express it now, which seems to help others.

I don’t know what this aboutchance.com site is, or what it wants to be. I don’t even know if it wants to exist. I have a friend who’s challenged me not to write a daily post until I feel legitimately excited or scared about what I’m going to write. In the last week, when attempting to visit aboutchance.com, the site connection has been lost. I’ve been unable to visit the website to write. This has happened repeatedly. Maybe it’s a sign to not write.

But… What about follow-through? What about challenging myself with a year-long daily commitment? What about daily surrender to the Universe?

Yea, well… What started as a daily surrender to the Universe has turned into a daily “MUST DO OR ELSE” on my already depressingly long “MUST DO OR ELSE” list.

And I’m fucking sick of it.

I don’t know if what I’m experiencing is called depression, or darkness, or sadness, or whatever other fucking word. But I will say that I do feel sick. Just like when people push themselves too hard physically, and end up with a headache or sore throat or the flu; I’m experiencing that mentally.

Although, the phrase “mental illness” is so fucking loaded that I’m hesitant to use it for what I’m experiencing.

I have a cold that I haven’t been able to shake. I have a sore hip that’s been in consistent pain for a few years. I experience regular migraines; I have for years.

^^^ These are all acceptable. No one’s blood pressure changes upon hearing this.

I have a deep sadness that I haven’t been able to shake. I have a sore heart that’s been in consistent pain for a few years. I experience regular bouts of suicidality; I have for years.

^^^ GOD FORBID I SAY THESE THINGS. (Which I do. I do say these things. The response has shown me that I was wrong in thinking that everyone experiences life the way I do. I think that maybe I’m a rarity, and I’m not sure if it’s in a good or bad way. It feels bad, because I feel deeply alone the majority of the time.)

Hi, I’m Jen, and most days, I want to die.

Most days, I feel stuck and confined to this meat suit of a human body. Claustrophobia pumps through my veins at about 60BPM. Breathing deeply brings a momentary feeling of weightlessness, but it shortly leaves and the weight of existence returns because I know the truth. The truth is I am the air. I am the trees. I am you. I am everything and everything is me.

And so, to know on an innate level that everything is one and to be actively working toward a deeper understanding of that very fact, while having to live in this [very convincing] illusion of disjointedness and separation is miserable. It’s just. Fucking. Miserable.

Have you ever been really good at a job, but stayed there for too long? It no longer excites you; it is boring and redundant. You know what clients and employees are going to say; you can practically map out how each day and week will go. And you put on your smile and great customer service attitude. Meanwhile, you hate it there. You know your time is done.

This is how it feels for me to be alive.

As though my prior lifetime was set to be my last, but I forgot one tiny detail… And now I’ve been incarnated in this form, a person so obsessed with and aware of the minutia of existence that it causes downward spirals and panic attacks, so that I can find and complete that tiny detail.

I’ve been put in an endless forest with sort of a hunch that I’m here to find a special pine cone. I don’t know what the special pine cone looks like, or why it’s special, and I certainly don’t know what I’m going to do with it upon finding it… But everyone keeps telling me I’ll just know.

But I find something special about every pine cone. That’s one of my issues.

I fall in love with everyone I meet.

I guess that’s an improvement. I used to hate everyone I met.

I do view life through Loving lenses. I have aligned myself with the vibration of Love and life flows beautifully as a result. I see the people around me basking in the sun, splashing in the pool, carelessly dancing to a good song… And I wonder, Are they faking it like I am? I too bask in the sun, and splash in the pool, and carelessly dance, but I do it all as if I’m playing the part of being human. It all feels contrived, forced, expected, and required.

And that’s exhausting.

And boring.

I am exhausted. I am bored.

And if someone comments on this with some bullshit about “you aren’t exhausted; you feel exhausted. You are not your feelings.” I will find you and shave your eyebrows. Get off my nuts. Take your spiritual woo babble elsewhere. I’ve read the books; I’ve done the yoga; I’ve sat in contemplative meditation for 100 hours over a ten day period of time; I’ve meditated 365 days in a row; I’ve cut sugar and gluten and alcohol and caffeine; I’ve done the therapy; I’ve beat the shit out of a pillow with a baseball bat while screaming about my childhood; I have tapped the acupressure points while positively affirming my worthiness and receptivity; and I am still miserable.

I feel like I was on a flight to Hawaii, fell asleep, and woke up in an alleyway in Detroit. I feel resentful about my very existence. Resentful at what? At whom? Myself, maybe. For making this choice. For not knowing when to give up and say, “Yea I’ve had enough. You all go ahead; I’m staying in tonight.”

I think this lifetime was me pushing past the boundary I had set. “I WILL DO THIS EARTH THING 300 TIMES AND THEN LEAVE,” I may have said… Or wafted or vibrated or shined.

And then, just like when tightening a screw that feels adequately tight, I was like, “Just ONE more time.”

And that’s when the threads rip.

My threads are ripping.

I am tired.

I am bored.

I am annoyed.

And I am alone.

And so, so ready for Hawaii. So, so ready for home.

Alas, I’ll stay. Because I fear that, if I leave, I’ll simply wake up in a new body, in a dirtier alleyway, with a deeper obsession to find that fucking pine cone.

Honestly: that is the reason I stay alive. Because I fear that, if I did allow myself the loving relief of death, I’d start over again. I’ve already got 31 years in this life sentence. I’m not about to start over from 0.

Posted by

Sometimes I write about happy things. Other times I write about sad things. Either way, there will be doodles.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s