(no subject)
Whenever there's something important I'm not writing about, it's usually because it stresses me out too much to talk about. And, well, right now? Everything is stressing me out too much to talk about. The two metaphors I've used most often to characterize the last month of my life are:
a) staying afloat, but just barely
b) feeling like a wind-up doll (go go go go on automatic, a sudden stalling out)
The things I don't want to talk about (just to keep myself accountable here):
a) food food food
b) a general feeling of not being good enough, with subsets of
__i) the Joe situation in all its fucked-up glory
__ii) boys in a more general sense
__iii) school, specifically . . .
__iv) . . . my writing
__v) my job
c) school stress in a more general sense
d) my alcohol issues
e) getting financial shit under control
f) guilt over some of the choices I've made in the past month
g) F., as usual
h) what I'm doing after college
i) how I'm afraid of how people perceive me
j) how I need to be more comfortable with who I am --
An anecdote on point j, to finish up: the boys at work are so so so mean -- to each other, to me, to everyone. Their entire means of communication is this mean-spirited sense of joking, name-calling, teasing, smarted-assed, loud-mouthed assholery. It means nothing. I know this. But lately I take it too personally even so. Brian and I were talking on Saturday night, and he was teasing me about how I take everything so, so hard. I told him, "I know you guys don't mean it, but it hurts my feelings anyway." He said, "You know we don't mean it, but you still feel like we mean it?"
I started laughing. "That's not what I said! It's just -- it feels like if you actually liked me, you wouldn't make fun of me so much."
"Have you thought about the fact that maybe we've just reached a level where we feel like we can have fun with you?" he said.
"Of course I've thought about it," I said.
He ruffled my hair. "You're being paranoid."
. . . on Saturday I went out and got drunk for the first time in a while. All my boys came out and flirted with me, tried to get me to go home with them, came up behind me to put their hands on my hips when I waited for a drink at the bar. Everybody took picture after picture and drunk-complimented the hell out of each other, and it's like -- the next morning I wake up and the residue from that has already washed away. It doesn't leave an imprint at all. But one little negative remark, one little perceived put-down, one suggestion that somebody might not like me as much as I want them to? Those things -- even with no basis behind them -- they linger for weeks.
a) staying afloat, but just barely
b) feeling like a wind-up doll (go go go go on automatic, a sudden stalling out)
The things I don't want to talk about (just to keep myself accountable here):
a) food food food
b) a general feeling of not being good enough, with subsets of
__i) the Joe situation in all its fucked-up glory
__ii) boys in a more general sense
__iii) school, specifically . . .
__iv) . . . my writing
__v) my job
c) school stress in a more general sense
d) my alcohol issues
e) getting financial shit under control
f) guilt over some of the choices I've made in the past month
g) F., as usual
h) what I'm doing after college
i) how I'm afraid of how people perceive me
j) how I need to be more comfortable with who I am --
An anecdote on point j, to finish up: the boys at work are so so so mean -- to each other, to me, to everyone. Their entire means of communication is this mean-spirited sense of joking, name-calling, teasing, smarted-assed, loud-mouthed assholery. It means nothing. I know this. But lately I take it too personally even so. Brian and I were talking on Saturday night, and he was teasing me about how I take everything so, so hard. I told him, "I know you guys don't mean it, but it hurts my feelings anyway." He said, "You know we don't mean it, but you still feel like we mean it?"
I started laughing. "That's not what I said! It's just -- it feels like if you actually liked me, you wouldn't make fun of me so much."
"Have you thought about the fact that maybe we've just reached a level where we feel like we can have fun with you?" he said.
"Of course I've thought about it," I said.
He ruffled my hair. "You're being paranoid."
. . . on Saturday I went out and got drunk for the first time in a while. All my boys came out and flirted with me, tried to get me to go home with them, came up behind me to put their hands on my hips when I waited for a drink at the bar. Everybody took picture after picture and drunk-complimented the hell out of each other, and it's like -- the next morning I wake up and the residue from that has already washed away. It doesn't leave an imprint at all. But one little negative remark, one little perceived put-down, one suggestion that somebody might not like me as much as I want them to? Those things -- even with no basis behind them -- they linger for weeks.