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Confession
thejanechord
Diaryland
notifylist.com
2002-08-22
1:03 p.m.
I’ve got the all-too-familiar crushing sensation in my skull again - the sensation that feels like either my skull is shrinking or my brain is expanding, resulting in the unfortunate phenomenon of horrific pain. Things in my life are finally coming back together after having been blown violently apart when I uprooted myself from Boston and replanted myself in Georgia last fall. After the following upheaval from Georgia back to Boston, I have landed myself a wonderful job, I’ve met lots of new people, I’m finally able to think about paying off all my newly incurred debts, and I’ve registered to start taking graduate courses this fall.
Things are supposed to be steadying themselves.
Of course, this habit we humans have of creating routines for ourselves is a fact of life with which I’ve never been able to agree. I don’t believe in routine. I think routine is precisely what makes life useless, and yet, without it I am utterly lost. Routine = boring. No routine = panic.
What the hell am I supposed to do?
So, I try to make life more interesting by running around like a crazy person finding new things to do, new hobbies, new interests, new horizons to run after until I discover them dissolving in my grasp, falling through my fingers like the sands of time in an hourglass, rushing away from an impending fate that never begins, never ends, never achieves anything at all.
And again, I am bored.
Staring off into space while my head throbs in and out of its own rusty machinery, I attempt to put together the pieces of a failed life with a stale and lumpy glue of bitter, unreasonable disgust. I hate life. I really do. I’ve always hated life. I don’t remember what it’s like not to hate life. Even at my best moments – the best of the best moments – I hate life.
It never ends.
Beginning everyday, I awaken at 5:00am to have some coffee, let the bunny out to play, walk fifteen minutes to the garage to get the car to move it to the street in front of the apartment, work out for half an hour, shower, make a sandwich for lunch, have some more coffee, update my website, and gather everything I’ll need for the day. Then, I go to wake Rob up so I can say goodbye, I pet the bunny on the nose to say goodbye, and I rush out the door to the bus at 8:00.
By then, the best moments of my day are already over.
The next thing I do is get on the bus for the most excruciatingly miserable forty-five minute bus ride during which I try desperately to stay awake by reading, thinking, or people-watching. Invariably, I fail miserably and end up fighting myself through the complex series of nods and sudden, jarring awakenings that follows. When I arrive at the final stop, my eyes are dry and scratchy from sleeping on the bus with my contacts in, my throat is dry and scratchy from breathing the stuffy bus air, my entire body feels irritated and anxious from trying so hard to stay awake against all my instincts to settle into death, and I spend the brief walk through the station and up the escalators to the street trying to rip myself from the web of sleepiness and thrust myself into the bright, sunshiny world where I can once again become painfully aware of my hatred of all things human, vibrant, and alive.
Needless to say, when I arrive on the street, I generally have the most horrendous look of utter disgust on my face because I’m so fucking annoyed with the fact that I have to be awake and on my way to work, so I’m already fucking pissed at everything. One would hope the affair was over and I was finally in my comfortable little cube, but NO, I have to walk through the crowd of construction workers who appear to be working but not working on the bank every single goddamn morning while they nudge each other with their elbows and half-whisper, half-scream annoying phrases of appreciation for the feminine race while I continue to stumble through the misery of my own slowly decaying vitality and curse them under my breath and trip over my own feet because the attention they pay me makes me too nervous and far too annoyed to be able to walk straight. Immediately after passing the construction workers, I stop in the cafe for my scone and endure the embarassing flattery paid me by the owners.
I spend from 9:00am to lunchtime everyday struggling to wake myself up. Every time the phone rings, my anxiety causes me to jump out of my skin. When someone asks me a question, all I notice is the fog before my eyes and the uncomfortable situation of being among other human beings. Answers to their questions come from some inexplicable wellspring of mostly unrelated bullshit combined with fabricated justifications for their applicable possibilities or a succinct response of, "I don’t know," followed closely by rolled eyes and a disgusted shake of the head that dismisses me from the case.
Once I have lunch, I can relax slightly into feeling as though I’m not doing something horribly wrong when I check my e-mail or read my book. What the hell am I supposed to be doing? I’m applying for a promotion after two months on the job because I’m always so bored out of my mind that I actually WANT more work to do.
Stupid PC’s.
If I had a Mac here at work, I’d never be bored, but that’s beside the point. People are too simple-minded for me to bother with them. This job is too easy. My head hurts too much. My walks to the kitchen are carefully planned out to take up as much time as possible from the worst parts of the day because I don’t have ANYTHING to do but continue to drink water. I feel almost as though having a LOT more work to do would make me less bored with everything, but I know that’s not really it. It’s not that there’s nothing I COULD do; it’s just that there’s nothing I WILL do because none of it matters due to the inherently stupid nature of life and the inadequacy of anything to fulfill the continual feeling of emptiness.
It occurred to me yesterday on the walk from the bus station to the building here at work that if I had had a gun with me then, I would have shot myself in the head. Luckily, I guess, I haven’t the ability to actually go ahead and buy a gun because there’s far too much to think about before killing oneself, so I just continue to become increasingly frustrated with myself and my inability to kill myself regardless of my distaste for life. I’m too concerned about my family and too much in love with Rob to do something so drastic and sudden right now, but if Rob wasn’t an aspect yesterday, I most definitely would’ve considered killing myself quickly.
I HATE this. I fucking hate the endless conversations within my own head. I fucking hate the endless contradictions within my own thoughts. I hate that I have nothing to do, and I’m stressed out that I have too much to do. It’s too much. It’s too little. It’s too much, too little, too frustrating, too complex, too simple, too horribly, horribly, horribly the SAME all the time.
Going to work day after day after day after day is a waste of everything I can imagine. I might as well be getting paid to kill time. Wouldn’t it be easier just to kill myself? It would certainly be more effective, more efficient, and more interesting.
