1. A long time ago, one of my best friends at the time told me that her favorite piece of advice from her therapist was:
“Anger implies self-worth.”
I don’t remember the context—knowing her and knowing that time in my life it was probably related to something shitty a boy did to either me or someone else—but I repeat it in my head all of the time.
“Anger implies self-worth.”
I don’t like feelings. They make me anxious. Well…that’s not a really fair statement because almost everything makes me anxious. Lately, 3 PM has started making me anxious. If I wanted to rewrite that Augusten Burroughs quote to be applicable to me, it would probably be, “I, myself, am made entirely of fuck ups, stitched together with an imeasurable amount of anxiety.” I don’t know what it’s like to have a feeling and not immediately go, “Nope. That’s wrong.” in my own head and attempt to fight it away.
This tangent is to say, feelings are not my favorite. The good ones, the bad ones, the really bad ones. I don’t really love them. I like to exist at a 5 out of 10. Neutral. Coasting. At a place where my anxiety cannot make my own feelings spiral.
At the top of the “I do not like these feelings list” is anger. I don’t like being angry. It stresses me out. It keeps me awake at night. It makes me look at 2-year-old Venmo payments and resent people. It makes me rant to no one in the shower, imagining all of the things I would say if I saw a subtweet. Anger, to me, doesn’t make me feel self-worth. It makes me feel obsessive. Which is something I have absolutely never wanted to be.
But right now? I’m angry. At people, at situations I had no control over, at some I did, at myself, at nothing, at everything, and then at some more. I’m just angry.
“Anger implies self-worth.”
But I don’t feel my self-worth anywhere. I can’t see it, I can’t touch it. It’s non-existent in this non-existent equation.
I’m just angry. And I wish I had a more concrete answer as to why.
2. When it gets really bad I’m supposed to list the good things and the things that spark joy so here it goes.
The sound of my dog’s little feet “running” in her sleep on the hardwood floor. Episodes of Extreme Cheapskates. Bonuses I definitely deserve(d). Red wine season. Mom jeans. Soup season. Boy Smells Candles. Effectively and thoroughly cleaning a white enameled cast iron and seeing absolutely no fucking stains on that bad boy. Buying art from the artist directly. Ben Platt singing Adele covers. Charcuterie boards made entirely of different french fries. Knowing my late grandmother was proud of me even if I’ve never felt that way about myself. Being right. Being right being right being right being right being right being right being right. Hoop earrings. The fact that my dog has memorized where my building keeps dog treats and beelines right to that spot whenever we come back inside after a walk. ‘Hill House’ season 2 is coming out this year. I can afford to get botox this year. I don’t actually need botox (maybe? just lie to me) but can afford it. I can run a 5k in a not embarrassingly slow amount of time. I got rid of a bunch of clothes and have (some) room in my closet. My credit score is improving. I got a Vitamix. I have things to list in a list of things that are good and spark joy.
Do I need to repeat the list again? It hasn’t worked yet. I am still here in the place where I am supposed to list the good things. Should I repeat it again?
3. The best quote I’ve ever heard in regards to this whole thing called life goes as follows.
“I’m just trying to get this over with.”
4. Have you ever been part of the reason that someone’s life blew up?
How do you recover from that? How do you forgive yourself? How do you rationalize playing a part in the absolute detonation of something? How do you let go?
How many times can I write the word how in a rant about how I don’t care about anything anymore while also clearly caring a lot about a lot of things!!!!!!
5. A very sad thing happened the other day where one of my friends was joking about she would repay me for ~*eMoTiOnAl LaBoR*~ (which let’s be real is called just being a fucking friend) and I said, “Literally just talk to me.”
How sad is that?! How sad is it that having someone listen to you is like…all you want and need. Idk. This is essentially a LiveJournal post that I’m somehow privileged and stupid enough to make public.
But more and more when people do try to talk to me, and I do try and open up, I find myself retreating inward. Shutting down. Putting up that mental block that says, “This does not matter. You are not interesting. You are not important. Just don’t talk about it and it will be fine.” All of the work I’ve done in therapy to undo the things I learned in my childhood that told me “the things you feel can be weaponized against you” feel like they were pointless. I say all I need is someone to talk to, and then I’m completely uninterested in talking.
How do you talk about it when you feel like people are only asking to, in turn, give **themselves**, something to talk about?
How do you talk about things when you can’t figure out what to say?
How do you talk about it when it sounds truly made up at this point?
How do you talk about it when you just want to get to the next part, the after?
And honestly…then what? Does it actually get better? Or does it just get different?
And honestly? Do I even care?
Looks like I have some more shit to keep trying to talk about.