Taking stock.
They call it devaluation/idealization, and it’s a hallmark of my “condition.” Did you know that I had the best job in the world before December? That I was happy, settled, comfortable, and fulfilled? That getting up was easy, knowing, as I did, that I was heading off to this piece of corporate utopia where I was paid competitively and always appreciated and never taken advantage of?
Yeah, I didn’t know that either. Accuracy flees in the face of idealization.
StT, she never let me down.
I don’t know how to get out of the cycle or if I’m supposed to be trying. The thing about idealization, at least the way I’m using it, is that it makes you feel like shit. Because the things I’m misremembering are no more. I don’t have that job. Hell, no one has that job. The company itself no longer exists as I knew (and yes, sometimes loved) it. StT is not around to cancel an appointment or otherwise piss me off, and so she continues to exist in this manufactured bubble of perfection and nostalgia and if only. It’s October. January is eons away.
But enough about that. I shake it off just as quickly as I wrap it around me like a Snuggie. Sometimes.
I’m tired. Not feeling well, physically, or terribly stable, emotionally. I feel old, suddenly, like 31 stole over me while I was sleeping (and not dreaming of all these falsely perfectified wonders of the past, oh no) and I woke up to find gray hairs sneaking into the brown and little lines that shouldn’t be on my puffy face.
The job … sucks. It sucks and sucks and sucks some more, and I feel guilty for even thinking that, as I know of two people off the top of my head who would be more than happy to take it. “I’d work with monkeys at this point,” one of them told me yesterday. “The phrase ‘over it’ doesn’t even apply to me anymore.” So where do I get off complaining about this cycle of tedium and boredom and boring tedium? My brain is atrophying, so what? People here don’t like me (I come off as a total bitch, and I know that and I can’t make myself care enough to fix it), and the ones who did I’ve shut out because it takes too much energy to interact. Sometimes I don’t speak from the time I leave the house until the time I pick up Mini from school.
Mini, ohhh. He’s a teenager in the making, at 4. No kidding, there are slamming doors and blaring music and tiresome sullenness. And, if I’m being honest, there are enough kisses and snuggles and silly jokes and flower weeds stuck into bottled water vases to put the other stuff to shame. That child … He just blows me away.
Hubby and I are better. So. Much. Better. I don’t know when it happened, or how, and I don’t really care because why would I? What matters is that we’re talking again, touching spontaneously, laughing at each other’s quirks and at the little blows life keeps delivering.
So I’m ok. I’m walking the line, and I’m holding (somewhat, and mostly) steady. And when I’m not, I’m wallowing in the sparkly perfection of the past.
Yeah, I didn’t know that either. Accuracy flees in the face of idealization.
StT, she never let me down.
I don’t know how to get out of the cycle or if I’m supposed to be trying. The thing about idealization, at least the way I’m using it, is that it makes you feel like shit. Because the things I’m misremembering are no more. I don’t have that job. Hell, no one has that job. The company itself no longer exists as I knew (and yes, sometimes loved) it. StT is not around to cancel an appointment or otherwise piss me off, and so she continues to exist in this manufactured bubble of perfection and nostalgia and if only. It’s October. January is eons away.
But enough about that. I shake it off just as quickly as I wrap it around me like a Snuggie. Sometimes.
I’m tired. Not feeling well, physically, or terribly stable, emotionally. I feel old, suddenly, like 31 stole over me while I was sleeping (and not dreaming of all these falsely perfectified wonders of the past, oh no) and I woke up to find gray hairs sneaking into the brown and little lines that shouldn’t be on my puffy face.
The job … sucks. It sucks and sucks and sucks some more, and I feel guilty for even thinking that, as I know of two people off the top of my head who would be more than happy to take it. “I’d work with monkeys at this point,” one of them told me yesterday. “The phrase ‘over it’ doesn’t even apply to me anymore.” So where do I get off complaining about this cycle of tedium and boredom and boring tedium? My brain is atrophying, so what? People here don’t like me (I come off as a total bitch, and I know that and I can’t make myself care enough to fix it), and the ones who did I’ve shut out because it takes too much energy to interact. Sometimes I don’t speak from the time I leave the house until the time I pick up Mini from school.
Mini, ohhh. He’s a teenager in the making, at 4. No kidding, there are slamming doors and blaring music and tiresome sullenness. And, if I’m being honest, there are enough kisses and snuggles and silly jokes and flower weeds stuck into bottled water vases to put the other stuff to shame. That child … He just blows me away.
Hubby and I are better. So. Much. Better. I don’t know when it happened, or how, and I don’t really care because why would I? What matters is that we’re talking again, touching spontaneously, laughing at each other’s quirks and at the little blows life keeps delivering.
So I’m ok. I’m walking the line, and I’m holding (somewhat, and mostly) steady. And when I’m not, I’m wallowing in the sparkly perfection of the past.