Working two jobs and going to school full time is a choice. I understand that. But overwhelmed doesn’t begin to cover the range of emotions that flood my body every single day when I wake up. And even though I feel completely psychotically exhausted, sleep doesn’t come easily because I have to drink at least 40oz of coffee during the day to keep moving forward. I work in two bars so alcohol is also a part of daily life. Consider in addition, shoving food in my mouth because I don’t have time to take my time to chew, swallow, and digest. So I’m highly caffeinated, a little tipsy, and have some serious indigestion. Health becomes an issue. Health becomes an issue when you’re so stressed and anxious, it feels like the walls of your heart are going to give out. Especially when your heart is already broken, and then scar tissue builds so that eventually, instead of giving out, it will get so tough you can’t feel anything anymore. Just a big beating ball of nerveless scar tissue. You gotta ask yourself (in more of a statement form), seriously, what the fuck. What the fuck are you doing. Why.
And there really isn’t an answer, and maybe that’s why there is no need for a question mark. Money, maybe. Maybe it’s just because you’re living and you have to do something. You have to occupy your existence. Finding a purpose (is there even a purpose). Maybe it’s simply because I live in America in 2015. I don’t know. I feel as though I’m trapped in a hole that I have created for myself, but that society gave me the shovel and basically said, “Dig or I’m going to burn you.” A hole where I’m constantly moving, never getting ahead, and always breaking/fixing, deconstructing/rebuilding, sleeping/waking, and no matter how much I win: I lose. I’m lost, and I’m very, very confused. I’m not even in debt for shit’s sake and I feel like this. So I’m in a hole holding this shovel while everything I do just cancels out. Shouldn’t that equal a sort of balance or something? Cause really, for some reason, it just feels shitty. And I know 100% IT COULD BE WAY WORSE. I know that.
I feel like I have lost every connection I’ve ever had with anyone or anything. Including my own family. Yes, we are always there for one another, yes we love each other endlessly, yes to all of those things that make a family a family. But what’s true is true and I truly feel like the only thing I’m connected to on that deep kick is an aching desire to be finished with everything. I’m 21 and I already feel so jaded and numb and anxious for the long sleep. How. Is. This. Possible.
I would say part of it is because I haven’t been to a yoga class in months. It kills me and I can’t wait to have time and energy to get back to that once this semester is over. Maybe once I get back on track I won’t feel any of these current feelings and I’ll get back to my old self. My zen, my peace, my purpose, my goals, bettering my being, etc. I’ll be able to more clearly cut out what isn’t serving me, what isn’t treating me right, what isn’t good for me. But for right now I’m just taking a minute to sit down and say fuck it.
“No one gives a shit about your problems” was something someone said to be about two months ago. It echoes in my head. Reverberating off of the ever-forming scar tissue in my heart and my brain. Right now, instead of writing this whiny bullshit down that no one is going to give a shit about, I could be doing something productive, like my homework. Or attempting to sleep. But sitting down, saying fuck it, and writing feels good so I did, and I’m going to. As I learned and realized in my English 301 critical theory class, we are a culture of complaint. What can I/we say.
And, quite frankly, I don’t know what I’m trying to say. Usually I am trying to say something, but right now, “fuck it” is the only thing coming to the forefront. I don’t have some brilliant lesson I’ve learned, or some feminist/humanist manifesto, or even a brush of wisdom I believe I’ve stroked onto my mental canvas. I feel fried like an egg somebody cooked a long time ago and it’s sticking to the pan just waiting, unknowingly, to be washed down the drain. I feel like the train has left the station, and I’m still at the station. I feel like a book collecting dust on a shelf among the billions of other books on this shelf of the universe called earth that simply just aren’t opened. But inside, inside, those sweet words create worlds of their own and you can connect to them and love them and feel them and be a part of them.
But nobody wants to open up books anymore, the pages turning between your fingers, the smell of ink and paper wafting up towards your nose, taking part of the mystery inside, the sensuality of being alive and in love. Because you’re on a shelf in a hole.
So I’m just sitting here saying fuck it.
Rest easy, Mitch.