This honestly feels like a shitpost generator right now and probably will remain so – I’m sorry. Basically: life is shit. That’s sort of the realisation I’ve come to over the last two months. No matter what you do or how you push or how much you hope and cry and try, everything will fall apart in the end. My head has never been a fun place and over the last few months, big things have happened to it – things that I expected to inspire me and lift me and turn my life into what I imagine a sunflower field feels like. It hasn’t.
Instead, I overthink and feel ridiculous and fall apart and constantly question every single thing I do.
I was promoted, I fell in love, I found a path and then lost it (repeatedly), I found old friendships that I thought I had lost, I reconnected with family members I hadn’t seen in years, I grew up and I started seeing life for what it is. In seeing it, I decided that I don’t want it. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life questioning if I’m doing something for myself or for the person I love, I don’t want to feel like I don’t know what direction I’m going in and I don’t want to worry about things like feeling needed. I always thought that a relationship would solve my insecurity related issues. I thought that a job would make me feel needed. I thought that finishing high school would give me freedom. I finished high school almost exactly eighteen months ago, and I have never felt more trapped. Not a single thing in life is actually ensnaring me, but my mind feels like all of it is.
It twists the good things in my life. It tells me that my friends don’t need me anymore and only keep me around out of pity. It tells me that I am a constant nuisance to my boyfriend and that he would be better off with anyone else in the world but me. It tells me that my mum would be able to get by more easily in life without me. It tells me that my grandmothers would prefer a granddaughter who was capable of calling once in a while and putting an effort into involving herself in their lives. It tells me that someone else would be better at my job and that I should just pass it on to someone else who wouldn;t screw up. It tells me repeatedly that I am nowhere near thin and that I will never be thin no matter what I do and that I’ll always be a mess because of the scars on my thighs.
My head is slowly torturing me, slowly pushing me further and further to the edge in the hopes that sometime soon, I will slip off the edge and take it with me. Recently, I’ve been wishing for it to finally just do so.
I sit through my manager asking how we can get the hotel occupancy up and think about all the things I should be doing to raise it and panicking because I can’t think of anything else. I sit through phone calls with guests who are certain and decisive and demanding and wish I could be like them and simultaneously loathe their existence. I stare at a laptop screen with no words on it and wish for anything to come. I wish that I could be the writer that I always wished to be, or even the doctor or vet or journalist or artist I had vaguely hoped for. I wish to mean something, to exist somewhere else and deserve the wonderful things that I am given but can’t do anything with.
The thing that makes life the most shit is that it really isn’t shit at all – we just don’t know how to see that.
This wasn’t what I wanted to write about. I wanted to write about aimlessness or falling in love or dreams and hopes or tell stories about the little girl and her mouse but all I managed was more mopey disasters.