I've been on the verge of one of my depressive bouts for the past few weeks. I have crawled into the hole in the wall for a few hours and grizzled. I have turned into a hermit crab. I have pouted and moaned.
It's not that I've been lying when I've been gleeing, it's just that those moments are very much for that moment and nothing more. The sense of joy doesn't stay. And it makes sense that I would be feeling discontent with the world right now, but it still just makes me angrier that I am angry. Not even my carefully cultivated form of distracting myself is doing a good job. I'll be distracted for ten minutes or so and then my mind will wander back to my current problems (no job, no romantic love, no prospects of romantic love, no money, twenty-three years old and still living with my parents) and I'll be back to moping again.
And it's just --- you know, same old, same old, so I should be used to it, suck it up and shut the fuck up. But there's a certain amount of perverse pleasure to be found in dwelling in misery, I think. Otherwise I wouldn't do it. Because I'm nothing if not someone who seeks pleasure at all hours of the day. If I don't like doing something, I don't do it. It's that simple. So, part of me must love feeling like shit and writing about feeling like shit. I suppose that's another part of me I have to work on.
Interesting year I'm going to have, trying to fix all of the things wrong with me. The list is up to seven items. Acquire depth. Quit being a recluse. Learn how to engage people who aren't children (and continue engaging people who are.) Minimise paranoia. Stop waiting and start doing. Tone down self-obsession. And now, brand new; stop dwelling in misery.
It's January, right? There's time to at least work on these things.
I probably won't.