Beating a dead horse

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Still not thrilled with life. I laugh at funny circumstances and jokes. I can appreciate the sun shining in the sky and smile at the autumn leaves. But that’s my outside me – the coat I wear over the real me to keep anyone from looking too closely. She can smile. The inside me is sad. Over a lot of stuff. Getting old, driving people away before they can hurt me, never quite reaching that brass ring…there’s a lot on my mind lately. None of it’s nice, or pleasant, or calming.

Made a start on the script. Found a line tucked away in my head (thank you, dad, for some of the most colorful cursing on the planet; I could never come up with that on my own) and thought it was perfect to get me going. And it did. But what followed became an angry, foul mouthed outburst, not a funny monologue. The more I looked at the angry words, the more angry I became. I realized that my anger was just sitting there, a churned up pool with a calm surface. Haven’t dealt with it. Haven’t overcome it. Just been ignoring it.

And no, I don’t want to ‘work it out on the page’. That gets tiring, too. I just want it gone.

I’d rather talk about how people screaming in the road at 5 a.m. on a Sunday must be some sort of proof of the lack of dignity in a neighborhood. How such shits live around me. Obviously people with (1) no volume control on their voices, (2) no shame in yelling at the top of their lungs, and (3) no consideration for anyone else on the planet other than themselves. Obvious, also, that they are not Dutch. Most of the problems I experience with noisy neighbors are not Dutch related. They’re people who’ve emigrated here but who don’t yet understand the culture. My answer this morning, after yet another morning of being woken up by these people fighting and screaming in the street just below my window? Make ’em integrate or get ’em out. Harsh, I know. I’m a harsh woman. I work my ASS off to fit in no matter where I go. The people I’m bitching about in this paragraph do not. They go on about their lives and expect everyone around them to adapt to their loud, uncouth manners. It sickens me.

Or let’s talk about how I’m just stuck professionally. I’ve seen some of your pages – even a few with thousands of followers. Thousands? Really? Anyone want to tell me how that happens? Because the one way I know of making it happen is to pay some company to “find” a bunch of people to “follow” you. In other words, it’s as fake as Trump’s tan. Either that or you’re a social media whore. One of those people hooked into a dozen (not an exaggeration) social media sites that repost every little thing you do – ‘Just took a dump!’. Don’t you get sick of splaying your legs like that? Don’t you crave a bit of privacy? Don’t you feel damned foolish pushing yourself like that?

I mean….you DO know you can get people to like just about anything if you expose them to it enough, right? Just because you’re making it through exposure doesn’t mean you’re actually any good.

And I’m still jealous of the numbers. Jealous of the ability to do all that, because I bloody well can’t. I have neither the stomach nor the vagina for it. So I take pot shots at people who might not deserve it because I want the thousands of followers, I want the book deal, I want the stuff I hear everyone discussing about their oh-so-perfect lives.

My life is far from perfect.

My personal inflation index is set at the same point it was when I was 12. I had this theory when I was younger that as I grew up money would lose some of its gasp factor for me. If you gave me a $50 when I was 12, I was damned impressed and a bit intimidated to have that much cash on me and in one bill. Problem is, I still feel that way. I’ve never earned enough to become lackadaisical about cash. Fifty is still a lot to me. As is twenty. Even a ten feels like a lot most days. I’m poor, dahling. No way around that one.

If raging would do me any good I’d be up throwing the furniture around. The inner me would like me to do that. The outer me doesn’t want to clean up later. Or make excuses.

Just not sure how to get out of this. How to make myself feel better so I can truly move on. Been doing all they tell you to do. Still feels pretty shitty. I’d like to take some of those ten point lists and shove them up some very ripe asses today. Yes, I exercise. Yes, I eat right. I avoid alcohol and (now) other drugs. I get enough sleep every night. I write. I talk. I bloody well try all the things you tell people fighting depression to do- not just try, but DO and DO with all I’ve got in me – and it’s still not helping. I suppose you could say all of this has kept me from actually sitting on the floor with a razor blade in hand…again. But I sure as fuck don’t feel okay. And I don’t want to hear from someone across a desk that I should try this or that and they’ll see me next week, same time, for an hour. No. Absolutely not. If you’re gonna give me that shit, I’m gonna demand you live my life alongside me for that entire week. You should have to suffer like I do, motherfucker. Not see me for an hour, give me some pat speech you’ve used on a hundred other patients, then send me out while you get up and take a coffee break or call your best friend to talk about your dress pattern or how much you drank the night before.

Ah. There’s the anger I was looking for. I see it’s tied to therapy. Again. Well, gimme my leather. Time to beat that dead horse one more time.

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