Where it really is.
I find that the more and more I feel sad or disappointed, the more I feel like giving myself a reason to be sad or disappointed. I don’t crave chocolate, but I’ll eat it. I don’t feel like sitting here and moping, but I’ll do it so that when I hit that low of mopey I can look at the clock and say “well you’re mopey because you sat here for 6 hours watching Nip/Tuck, looking for a job that doesn’t involve coffee or too much face to face time with people who think I’m worth nothing more than my hourly pay and the dime they’ve thrown in the tip jar to steam their milk and follow directions set by a fleet of people in a bigger office that actually enjoy their involvement with coffee.
It’ like eating a pint of ice cream because I’m sad and fat, but this way by eating the ice cream I can say “well the reason you’re sad, is because you’re fat. The reason you’re fat is because you ate this pint of ice cream.” It doesn’t make it better, it just reminds me of the reason why.
The problem (well there are many problems but I’m just gonna go into one of ’em) here is it doesn’t get me anywhere. Sure it lets me complain, I love that. I love the sarcasm and wahwahwah-ing. It’s not putting much positive energy out there, like I’m supposed to, but I at least I know that. There’s a lack of positive energy within me anyway and a negative thought that comes out first “why bother?” The problem remains. My…problem(s) remain, I’m just running and hiding like I always do. It used to be with Vodka. Then it was 7&7’s. Then it was Jamie & Ginger’s. Then it was wine, lots of bottles of wine. Now it’s pints of ice cream or pieces of dark chocolate. When I get sick of it, I’ll turn to something else–after buying bigger soft pants and investing in maternity jeans because they have that elastic top. Then I can complain about wearing maternity jeans and not even being pregnant.
Then maybe I can become someone so different that my person will become fed-up with me. Wonder what happened to me, or to us, then he’ll leave–then I’ll cry and find my next pint of ice cream or hide-out and cry into it while drowning in it. Then maybe…just maybe I’ll figure out what rock bottom really is. But even then, I don’t know if I’d bother trying to get out–and that’s where the real problem is, isn’t it?