How high should the dosage get before you admit that you’re a lost cause? That no matter what you do – all the therapy, all the anti-depressants, all the exercise – it’s not going to make a difference? That you’re just going to continue being a bitter, sad, lonely person?
I’m not willing to live the rest of my life like this.
I try to be happy with what I have. Which, in my materialistic moments, seems like a lot. I can list the things but they’re all physical. I am more than comfortable taking care of myself, monetarily.
Giving myself emotional care is an entirely different issue, and I’m really bad at it.
I’ve lived in Kansas City my entire life, and I have about two people I would call real friends. I’m not sure I would trust any of them if it came down to a crisis. I’m not the best at maintaining lukewarm friendships, for sure. But the good ones, the ones I expect to last, never do. And it has to be me, right? I’ve questioned every interaction I’ve had with everyone I know at this point, and I’m really not sure what the fuck is wrong with me.
It makes me feel like a pariah. I’ve met so many people here and I think most of them have a bad opinion of me. I don’t KNOW if they do, I just think that. Maybe it’s real, maybe my tendency to date really social men has fucked me over; that every time I date one (and then inevitably break up) I close the door to another group of people. Maybe every time I’m quiet in a social situation it’s a point against me, a black mark.
I know they haven’t stayed in touch after the breakups.
I can’t help that I’m an introvert. I can’t help that social situations are always going to be really fucking hard for me. That I’m never going to know what to say, or how to blend into a group of people who have known each other forever. I can’t help wishing that I was at home reading a book, or just hanging out instead, even though when I do that I get the FOMO and think I’m missing out on everything exciting and interesting and cultured and just digging the hole deeper.
I can(’t) help that I have terrible self-esteem and don’t know how to sell myself to strangers. (who are not trying ot employ me. I’m good at that, for some reason).
I give everyone else the best intentions and give myself the worst. I read articles about narcissism and recognize some of those traits in myself. And then I wonder if I’ve ever made anyone feel like that and feel all of the self loathing.
I pick up hobbies like an UBER driver picks up drunks. They’re entertaining, for a time, but they mean nothing. It usually just another reason for me to stay home and tell myself I’m being productive. Maybe I can make a million macrame plant holders and leave that as my legacy. I guess it’s more productive than empty wine bottles, full ashtrays and tear stained kleenex.
But going out isn’t really fun, either. Altering my consciousness, making myself more agreeable to assholes, being able to deal with crowds… this is what alcohol does for me. I keep telling myself it doesn’t make me a different person, but maybe it does. If it does I’m pretty sure it’s a worse one. More apathetic, more depressed, more willing to believe the worst about myself. It’s still going to be hard to give up.
I don’t know how to have a sober social life. I don’t think anyone would like me sober.
I read the depression subreddit and it seems like a description of my life; of my every thought, and every thought I’ve had since I can remember, since I was small. I’m coming to terms with the fact that I’ve been severely depressed for my entire fucking life.
I can’t help wondering – and bitterly regretting – what my life woud be like would if I had a brain that didn’t hate itself. I’ve accomplished some stuff in spite of it.
I can be charming and funny and witty and all kinds of nice things, on occasion. The times I feel the most like myself, or maybe the ideal version of myself. I just wish it was all the time.
The mountains seem very insurmountable these days.
I try to console myself with my career and go on interview after interview. Hating myself a little more each time because I know I’m not living up to my potential. Hating myself for the fact that I don’t WANT another job, and the predator in me feels like I should.
Except I honestly don’t want that potential anymore. I look around at the agencies I go to and I see vultures. Wolves. People willing to do whatever it takes to get ahead, to win the big account, the next promotion, the next award. I’m not convinced they do it for love of design. Or love of anything but winning.
I see them and feel exhausted.
I could do it.
I could go back to that person, the cut throat that had to be the best at everything, the one that had to smash all my competitors to pieces. And I could win. But I like to think that I’ve learned a little perspective and a lot of humility since I was there. I don’t want that life; the glory doesn’t seem so sweet anymore. That person is not a nice one, she worries and stresses and works entirely too hard just to make sure someone can’t look down on her.
And I could go back to being the ‘hot girl’. In earnest. I could eat a chicken breast and a handful of veggies a day and then have vodka and cigarettes for dinner. I could weigh next to nothing. Weigh enough for you to pack me away in your conscience without an issue, weigh enough for that not to be the reason why you stopped having sex with me.
I could get my weight to a point where people would be amazed that I have a brain and not just a body. Maybe then they would take notice. I could go back to thinking my weight was the only thing that mattered.
But I won’t.
There will always be someone better than me. At everything.
To continue to be a part of a system that has destroyed the internet – a system that has turned it into a tool for ‘them’, and not a voice for the people – I can’t do it anymore. I’m tired of making rich people richer.
I remember when the internet was a new world, a a place to meet people and express yourself without the fear of judgment. Anonymity was a friend, once, and now it’s an asshole. But, really, anonymity doesn’t exist anymore. It’s all a facade. Every website you go to is tracking everything you do and selling that information to someone.
Honestly, I could write an entire rant about the internet and what it has become. And maybe I will, someday, on Medium, where it can be appreciated in full :).
Working with small businesses is one thing – sometimes I feel like I can get them on their feet – but even that seems pointless now. They have very little hope without extensive social media marketing and an established customer base. I can’t do any of that for them, I’m the worst person I know at social media, becuase I kind of hate it. The internet needs to be re-made. Or we need the next thing to come along.
I applied for my dream job, months late. It’s in San Diego, a company that only works with non-profits or social good causes.
I googled “non-profit design agency” and saw their website and they had projects that I’ve used as inspiration on some of my own.
I saw that they were hiring an Art Director, realized the post was from April, and had to do it anyways.
I got a response within five minutes, which is rare. They love my work but have filled the position (of course). But, hey!, if I’m ever in San Diego I should come and talk to them about ’other opportunities’. I don’t know what that means, but I don’t think it’s ‘book a flight’ worthy.
I’ve been wanting to start a non-profit design agency for years, and talked with Tim about it several times. It’s not going to happen, with him, now.
The answer has been ringing in my head for weeks now: Start your own thing.
It doesn’t have to be big; make a website, gear it towards non-profits, and see what happens. I have resources – so many brilliant people – if I get overwhelmed.
Keep your day job, don’t do anything crazy.
But also don’t get your hopes up, because without a fuck ton of marketing it’s probably not going to go anywhere.
I have an appointment tomorrow with a ‘holistic nutritionist’, and I mean to do everything this woman tells me to do. She might be my last chance at a real life.
I don’t ever expect to be “normal.” I don’t know what to do after this, except I’m pretty sure I’ll be left to my own devices. But my own devices brought me here, so maybe I have good instincts?
I go to all the yoga. I exercise for fun and stress relief, now, and I doubt I’ll ever stop. I’ve done all the things that are supposed to be mindful and reflective and gone on all the anti-depressants and fasted and… continued to be myself. In a bad way. The self that hates my life.
So I’ll tell you this, because I just need to:
I loved you.
I loved you more than I ever thought was possible. You were it for me. I would have put up with things forever, if you hadn’t made it impossible.
I loved you in the best way I knew how.
Maybe what I could give was deficient.
Maybe I was just the warm up for your next girl.
I’m sorry there were so many things you thought you couldn’t do with me. (you could have)
Maybe it was all my fault. I don’t know anymore.
I know I’ve been a different person since I met you.
And I DO remember that we promised to always be honest with each other, no matter what, and then you shat on it. You gave up on us. Maybe we were too hard together, and you’ve gone on to someone easier. Maybe we both have.
You told me in an email that you should have never dated me, and it’s haunted me since then.
I remember the night on Manheim, with the house, with the sangria, when you told me you wanted to be my boyfriend out of nowhere and we made out on the front steps (and the back of your truck) like teenagers. The night when we ruined your sheets, and the whirlwind that happened afterward. And I remember our friendship before that, that made it all seem real and right and warranted… and I can’t believe it.
I know you loved me, loved US.
You know me, and you knew that it would hurt me when you said that, and maybe I deserve it. But I never intended you to find this. I never pointed these words at you like a sword, even though I could have. I never called you out in front of anyone you knew, YOU did that by telling them about this blog.
I tried to continue on with my life in the best way I could.
It’s not possible anymore, my life needs to become something other.
I wish I was as good at being a chameleon as you are.