Trying to relax a bit and trying to stay busy. Busy is good. Busy is nice. Trying to write things. Trying to put pen to paper. Trying to fight against the paranoia and the distress and all those thoughts that aren’t helping.
Once more, I’m not going to go into details about what this investigation is about. It’s already seeming far more dramatic than it is, but I will say that it feels like it’s being dragged out far longer than necessary.
I don’t want to feel like this anymore. I just want to get back to living my life, but it has been years. I haven’t felt as though I’ve been able to get on with things for far too long and it aches. I want to work hard this year and I want to counter what last year was. I want to go places. I want to go see my family, and I can’t. Keep trying to get a better job and it keeps giving me the slip, and I keep trying and people keep telling me to keep trying, but it doesn’t eventuate, so I keep trying, but I have to wonder how much more try in me I have left.
Realistically, even though I say this I probably still have quite a lot left in me, but that’s not how it feels. I can acknowledge it, but I don’t feel it and that’s part of the issue. It was an issue before these four-and-a-bit days of distress, and it’s going to remain an issue after. But I’ll keep going and I’ll keep on keeping on and eventually, maybe one day I’ll get there and rise into a position that pays slightly above minimum wage. Maybe.
I wonder how much time and life I’ve lost working in roles that I’ve been unsuccessful in rising above. I wonder how much I’ve really gained from pursuing that which I want to pursue. We talk about the experience and knowledge and sense of accomplishment, but we don’t talk about the cost of time and we don’t talk about the cost of health, and living with low amounts of stress. There are a lot o things we don’t talk about.
Of course hustling is important, and it’s good to hustle, or at least it needs to be done if you want to get somewhere sometimes, but there still is so much luck to that kind of success. You could hustle with the right people and they could just like someone else more than you, and that’s that and you have to accept it, and maybe that’s not the issue anyway. Maybe the issue is that we’re so willing to promote and encourage rather than support. But I don’t know.
So once more I am sitting here, and the heat is leaving the house and that’s nice. I don’t have to sit here and sweat profusely at the same time. They can become separate activities once more, and that’s nice. I can deal with that. I can’t deal with the wait, or trying to force myself into writing when I feel compelled to do so but functionally unable to do so.
Am doing an alright job of that though, so that’s nice.
But I’m sitting here thinking and I’m trying to keep the paranoia and stress at bay, and the walls are just plain but they seem to press in, and outside’s no different. I don’t feel as though I’m resting, but rather I feel I’m burning out and tearing at myself, and I need the endless nothingness to end. I need a moment to breathe and relax.
Sometimes I wish I could just let this stuff wash off, but so far the majority of my life has been spent living somewhere around paycheck to paycheck, and it doesn’t help. It doesn’t help that I still continue to do so and it doesn’t help that I work so hard on things without success. It also doesn’t help that when I talk about dropping some of the things I do, people encourage me to not do so.
Am I to continue working hard with a visible track record of little, if any success? Do I keep walking that path because people think that eventually success will come? How much of my life must I keep living unable to do much of anything until I finally get that success? How much of my life and time must I give before people finally accept that it’s enough and, perhaps they should have listened instead of telling me to keep going?
I know that people mean well. I know that they don’t want to see me discard things that I like, but they need to be aware that sometimes someone thinks about these things for a long time. They aren’t necessarily dropping things on a whim.
I don’t know where I’m going with this. I’m pretty sure all I’m doing is just venting and I don’t want to be doing that. Maybe I’m also trying to reclaim time for myself. I don’t know. I don’t know and I keep going and all I feel is pressure pressing down, and I’m trying to get ahead of it but it just doesn’t happen, and I miss living. I miss having a life and being able to do things, and I miss struggling a little bit less, and it’s hard.
I have a roof over my head and that’s okay, but I don’t know if I am living. I don’t feel I am. I certainly am surviving and some would say that’s enough, but I don’t think it is. I think there needs to be more going on, but it’s not happening. I’ll keep going and hopefully the distress subsides soon, but I don’t know if it will. It’s that uncertainty that’s not helping. I’m meant to have answers at this point and there’s nothing, and there’s little I can do about it, and it’s all just a struggle.
The time it took to write one thousand words: 17:02:65
Not as fast as I would have liked, and not as concise either.
It’s more venting and it doesn’t add much of anything to anything.
Writing felt necessary here, but I don’t know if this was the best thing to write.
Stupidity Hole 