At least, they would be for decompressing if I ever got to decompress. I’ve got five partially composed blogs saved as drafts. I mostly can’t decide what to post first and what I feel is appropriate for this blog.
Fuck it. EVERYTHING is appropriate for this blog, I know that.
A cold front has swept in to Pennsylvania and it feels like the warning roar of winter. There are two things that make this difficult: bones that creak and knowing that I’m losing the light. Sunlight is a weak, cloud-dimmed thing today, and I’m hoping the overhanging storm clouds will either band together and rain or get the hell out. It’s harder to shake off the napalm-burn of arthritis when there’s no sun, it’s harder to shake off everything when there’s no sun.
Work was incredibly hectic, and surprisingly productive this week. Life in the non-profit sphere is tricky at best in this economy, and that’s an understatement. I’m stressing non-stop for various reasons but I don’t want to talk about any of them. Sometimes I get tired of having a life composed of circumstances that make me sound like Eeyore if I talk about them.
They’re all true, they’re all real, and no one can do a damn thing about them. Mostly, it comes down to money I haven’t got. Sometimes it comes down to the inherent horror of spending the majority of my life watching people I love suffer.
Sometimes it’s suffering myself.
Bleak circumstances are bleak. What can I say that the tautology doesn’t?
So, I keep my mouth shut because even I am bored with the bleakness of things. I write drivel because as long as I’m telling a story, even if I’m just telling it to myself, I can be distracted.
A soupcon of denial is a functional mode of existence.
I have thoughts and I try to ignore them, I make plans I know I can’t follow through on, in the hope that I’ll be wrong. Sometimes I am.
It’s life. It’s not grand or glamorous and it certainly isn’t what I hoped it would be, but it’s life.
I’m not. . . unhappy. I’m discontent, I’m miserable in specific moments or about specific things, but I’m not actually unhappy.
It’s a bizarre state of mind: everything sucks and I know it and I’m trying desperately to sort it out. The stress is mind-bending and physical pain makes it worse on top of everything else. Yet, I am not intrinsically unhappy.
I have things to do today, then I am wrapping myself up in a blanket and watching a film, possibly more than one. Possibly I will nap, with a potential for soup and toast later on. I don’t know.