Monday morning. Alone in the office. Lacking the sense of expansiveness that allows for a sustainable daily contentment. Can’t get past the fact that I hate my job so very much. I’m tired of thinking that thought, but it keeps coloring everything else and wrangling me back.
I keep switching back and forth between thinking everything in the world is bullshit and not being able to take any endeavor seriously because of it, and that the world is full of wonder and fulfillment and interesting people and opportunities for happiness.
It’s hard to care about or believe in anything when so much of my weekly time is spent counting down the minutes until I can go home and do fulfilling things and talk to people that contribute to the sparkly sheen of life.
I miss having a community. I miss going home at the end of the day with a sense of satisfaction. I miss not having to delude myself that my work is making any sort of significant difference to someone who needs it.
I’m moving in with Ben at the end of the month to a charming little house and hopefully will be getting a job in Milwaukee soon, but it’s hard to even look forward to that lately.
Spending 40 hours a week so isolated has made me not want to see anyone, so I keep spiralling into a deeper funk. Some days I really lambast myself for not being able to overcome what is probably not that big of an obstacle to begin with—if I just focused harder on giving a shit about real estate, I wouldn’t feel so bad. But I can’t bring myself to. Other days I realize that some things just can’t be interesting because of my constitution and I accept that. But it’s hard being pulled mentally in opposite directions.
I need to start writing again. My writing practice, although not as artistically fruitful as I wanted it to be, at least had the benefit of tethering me to my life more fully.
I believed some tenuous narrative existed because I was giving form to it. It’s surprising how helpful that act can be, especially when dealing with uncomfortable life circumstances.