If you already don’t like me, this post certainly isn’t going to help.
Then again, if you don’t like me you probably don’t know about or don’t care about my blog, so really this post is only going to make people who already like me a little like me less, and make those who like me a lot reconsider.
The thing is, I really like to feel sorry for myself.
Wait. I wasn’t being totally honest. Honestly, I love to feel sorry for myself. I love feeling sorry for myself so much that if Texas would pass gay marriage then I would be the obnoxious right-wingers prophesied nightmare and go on to try to legalize marrying Feeling Sorry For Myself. I imagine Feeling Sorry For Myself and I would have a nice, quiet ceremony where none of our friends would come; my parents would both get too drunk at the reception and get into a vicious, brawling scene in front of the caterers while the DJ played the Chicken Dance despite my repeatedly telling them that song was on the strictly forbidden list; and Feeling Sorry For Myself and I would try to soak our beautiful buttercream iced cake with our self-pitying tears because it would be too dry.
I would then feel more sorry for myself because I would be forced to tell the probably very nice over-priced cake maker that they were right – that “moist” was the way to go and that I was just being stubborn by refusing to use that word in any cake taste testings. It would then spiral to me being sad that all cake taste testings were over and Feeling Sorry For Myself and I would fight for years to come over whose fault it was that the cake was dry.
Pause–> Feeling Sorry For Myself and I will never get married until marriage equality is achieved in all 50 states. That’s just the kind of couple we are. Play–>
YOU SEE???? This is not even a real wedding, yet I’ve managed to muster up more self pity in those two fictional paragraphs than most people manage to accomplish in a real life week.
But these past few days I’ve been feeling unprecedented amounts of sorry for myself.
Not like disastrous fake wedding kind of sorry for myself, but like good ol’ fashioned nobody likes me, everybody hates me, guess I’ll go eat worms kind of sorry for myself. Blatantly not even trying to accomplish anything, wearing the shirt I sleep in to work, skipping everything that is not absolutely mandatory for survival kind of sorry for myself. Blank stares at friends and colleagues who try to attempt polite conversation, Fleetwood Mac’s Rumors album on repeat with whiskey on the rocks and cigarette hanging from my lips, not allowing myself to be angry because I’m relishing feeling my self-imposed weight of the world kind of sorry for myself. Nobody likes my writing, I’ll never love again, my parents’ relationshit broke me, “why are any of us here, anyway” kind of sorry for myself.
It’s gotten pretty dark over here.
I know we all have these days. I know. I know. I know. But I’m having one today, and I had one yesterday, and I had one the day before, and keeping The Sad at arm’s length is starting to seem insurmountable and pointless. I’m just so exhausted and so bored. With everything. It’s all too much and all not enough.
The problem with being a chronic feeling sorry for myselfer is that I selectively forget that I am not the only one. I have multiple friends whose parents are extremely sick right now. I’m by no means the only person I know suffering from a life that was yanked out from under them despite them having done all the “right things” to protect themselves. I’m not the only one who has to convince themselves to get out of bed every morning – some days doing a much better job than others.
Hell, I could pull the “there’s starving kids in Africa” card if I wanted, but then I would just start thinking about how there’s actually starving kids in my own city, but why doesn’t anyone do anything to fix it. And then I would start thinking why don’t I do anything to fix it. Then I would start to feel sorry for myself for having my privilege and being cursed with my high levels of social awareness and empathy because so many people have only one and isn’t life easier when you’re not aware of the suffering of others.
Only when you truly love to feel sorry for yourself can you take growing up in a middle class home and being fortunate enough to have a college education and a successful career and realizing that other’s lives are harder because they don’t have those things and turn that into reasons why you still think you no one understands your plight.
Remember when I told you this was going to make you not like me? When I’m right, I’m right.
Reminding myself of all the reasons why I don’t deserve to feel this sad only makes me feel like a disgusting person. I feel guilty and ashamed, and I want to curl into a ball under my desk and hide there so that nobody can ask me to do anything until the school day ends. Then I can then crawl into my car and listen to The Chain on repeat and attempt to muster tears but only be able to screamsing along to remind myself “if you don’t love me now, you will never love me again” until I get home and can then drag myself onto my patio and skip yoga and forget to make dinner and chain smoke and drink more whiskey and worry about my life choices.
Hypothetically speaking, of course.
I really want to want to stop feeling sorry for myself. I do.