See that it is barren

Upon reflection I think the core of my unrest is to do with the longing for a genuine conversation. What use is a mind if all I ever challenge it with is a trip to the grocery store? How can one find actualization when the most stimulation they get is cleaning the garage?

I’m not talking about hearing a monologue about someone else’s day. The people that irritate them, their frustrations, this is dribble I am accustomed to being paid to listen to, not at all satisfying. Tiresome too is the generic babble about how the pandemic sucks, how stupid people are. Yes. The obvious remains glaringly obvious.

What I crave, ache for really, is a challenge. Deep questions on life and philosophy are the real fantasy. I want to discuss new ideas and discover new topics to research. I want something to elicit passion. Not in a gross way, but to once again light the fire for conceptual ecstasy. 

As I amass concrete resources I find less and less remains of the cognitive pleasures. I guess it all goes back to Maslow, and having such a solid foundation simply leaves more time to rue the shortcomings on the upper end. How bizarre my younger years were fruitful in the mind yet barren in the bank, and now that the tables have turned I am still dissatisfied.

Or perhaps I simply find a pleasure in wallowing in my own self-pity?  It doubtlessly gives me something to write about, and I do wonder what would be left if I was finally fulfilled?  Is angst my muse? If that’s the case then I need not wonder why I haven’t taken action to remedy the situation.

I expect in time as the shit-show that is working in a school during a pandemic sets in the issue will remedy itself. My dear friend exhaustion can replace all of this. 

The elephant in my brain

Another day, another headache, another case of mental anguish.

Of all the things I’ve left behind, the sense of another human understanding me is what I miss the most. I ache for it. I struggle to fathom how I didn’t appreciate it, why I didn’t fight harder to secure it.  I have so much to be thankful for, yet this hollow hole in my very being rattles and demands acknowledgement. 

It’s still something I struggle to explain. It defies logic and goes against everything I (don’t) believe. A connection like lightning straight to our brains. As Hedwig says  “I could swear by your expression, that the pain down in your soul was the same as the one down in mine”. The blind, ultra-focused  younger me couldn’t possible place a value on this.

 Regret is a road I dread to travel down. Yet the questions can pelt me if I dare set a foot out the door.  Why was it so impossible to be less selfish? To grow up a little? How could I miss that I had a one in a million gift?

My consolation prize, wisdom, tells me that what is easy now was likely impossible then. It tells me that while I crave the connection like a shriveled plant craves water, if I had it I would surely want for something else as painfully. Humanity isn’t customizable, you can simply chose the perks in the least offensive package available.

My brain has a terrible habit for ruminating. Despite more background in mental health than almost anyone I can’t shake it. I see my faulty coping as if I’m in a glass bottom boat over sharks. And still I willfully jump in, hell bent on some catharsis.

I always said I was just like you.

You said in that case no one wins.

Things went south and down and then back through.

We couldn’t let go for the might-have-beens.

The things I’ve said make me the queen of spin.

My gaslight anthem well written for the pain.

I’m grateful that we don’t believe in sin.

It was honestly the best gift I ever gave you.

All I did to hurt you set you free. 

 In my remarkable brilliance I saved you.

The best part is I thought I was saving me. 

Summer time... and the living ain’t easy

Summer 2020. Too hot to go outside for more than a few minutes here, the heat index is well over 100. The pandemic has put a stop to public outings in the safety of air conditioning. Friends, the last bastion of humanity too are off limits: Who wants to live with knowing your selfishness killed your best friends grandma? Or baby? 

Staring despondently at the wall I vaguely wonder how many hours it has been. I am unable to muster anything but apathy as I see the many chores pleading to be done. The thought of exercise, calling a friend, or any other multitude of positive time fillers seems ghastly. The hollowness of boredom dreads the idea of being filled with meaning. 

With no where to go and nothing to do, time stretches and bends with no discernible pattern. Schedules being a thing of the past, there are few waypoints now. Eventually your stomach will demand food, the sun rises and sets with no regard for our petty thoughts. Jeopardy still comes on time. These shallow markers do little to ease the relentless waves of futility battering us endlessly back towards nothingness.

The sensation is not altogether unfamiliar, it is something of an annual tradition for me. My compromise of a “dream job”, counseling kids through the awkward phases of adolescence means long summers off. There was a time when I imagined filling this void with wild adventures, with satisfying friendships, or even with spawn of my own. Reality however, had other ideas. Noble as my profession may be, it doesn’t exactly provide a large disposable income, which it turns out is a key requirement for the aforementioned wild adventures etc. 

For years the existential doom that was my close friend seemed temporary. Some day you will reach your goal and miraculously there will be satisfaction. Keep up the mantra and it will become truth. Maybe I am just too weak to hammer it home, how can you tell if it only needs one more repetition or a million more?

It goes without saying that all of these thoughts are unspeakable. My life is one of absolute privilege. Lucky to be so smart, to have been born to the right family, in the right place, in the right time. How dare I risk looking bad? It could embarrass my husband and his high profile career. Or mine for that matter. Not that mine would ever have the same significance. Equality is still an illusion in some arenas, yet who am I to complain?

There I go again, getting off topic. I didn’t start this to talk about rights and equality. That’s a far different futile argument for a different day. Today so devoted to self pity and my perpetual adoration for my own melancholy. 

No matter how old I get I am always happy to destroy a gourd or two.