my god am i fucking miserable tonight. completely, totally, insanely miserable. every deep dark thought has come out to play tonight – my unhappiness with my job, my insecurity about my writing, my loneliness. it’s all here tonight and it’s not any fun. at least i know and i do know that this all just hormonal. in a few days it will go back to being the way it always is, just the mild discontent that keeps me alive. i can hear that little voice inside me telling me “it’s ok babycakes, it’s gonna be ok, this is just PMS and you’ll make it through.” but then i shoved that voice in a drawer and decided to dance with the dark.
tonight, oh tonight, it’s black and dark and mucky. and while i laid in bed thrashing about with the muck i wondered if this is what depression is like. this utter hopelessness about the badness of life. this feeling that maybe there is nothing good at all. AT ALL! and if it is, then i can understand why sylvia plath offed herself and i have gained a newfound respect for people that battle depression every day. because you know, these last few days of PMS-induced depression are killing me. this does, however, give me a small bit of solace. because i know this is not my standard mode of operation and even when i get sad and lonely, i know it’s not this bad. even on my lowest-non-PMS days, it’s never this bad.
and i wonder, how can it change so drastically from month to month? why are the hormones particularily bad sometimes and other times, you don’t even notice it? and why do these hormones have to turn you into a freakshow adolescent who can’t seem to settle on any emotion for more than 10 minutes? and even worse your face breaks out and you feel like a pimply faced 15 year old who can’t figure anything out. plus, you don’t make any sense.
so, i’ve spent the last hour and a half laying in bed having an imaginary conversation with the bossman. i’ve decided i have to bit the bullet, put on the big girl pants and tell him that i’m miserable at work. i have to tell him that not only am i miserable, but most of my coworkers are miserable and they keep telling me about their miserableness and asking me to fix it and that’s making me even more miserable. this all sounds like a completely sane and rational idea now at 1:30 in the morning. that might change in the harsh light of day.
and the rest of the muck? the worry about the fiction flight of fancy and whether i got the chops? the falling back on the old reliable loneliness? that just makes me angry because it’s such a cliche. gee, an insecure writer, who would have thought?
see? i’m just angry and angrier and spewing venom. and it doesn’t make any sense which in turn makes me angrier and i just hope that getting it outside of me. by putting it somewhere else, i’m hoping that at least will help me sleep a little bit.