This is getting out of hand

Just a quick poll: who still reads this? If you read but never comment, that's okay. Just post a quick 'here' to let me know my audience.

I didn't want to write this. I guess it's better to say that I didn't want to take the time. Comfort is such an addictive thing. Once you get used to it, you start to forget that good things often come with a price. You get used to mediocrity, like an obnoxious cousin whom you share a bed with during a family reunion in the mountains. You don't like him there, but he keeps the bed warm.

Well, here's to a cold night.

I wonder how many drafts I'm going to go through. I've already deleted two paragraphs that I felt were under-par. Yes, under-par for a blog. Perhaps the only reason I'm still writing is because I remembered that I like my writing better when my mind is peaceful and happy and my thoughts can focus. Now, words fail me. Not completely, but like a machete when a scalpel was needed. They feel unwieldy, clumsy, and limp. It's because they mirror my thoughts right now. The funny thing is, I don't feel depressed. Well, not clinically. I'm just reflecting on everything that's been happening -or failing to- since I returned from the Peace Corps. I know that there's nothing for me to do but pick myself up and do better, but, nevertheless, I can't help sighing.

The picking myself up came from my talk with my shrink today. To point, it wasn't a morale boost. However, I should also point out firstly, that I have never felt comfortable talking to this doctor but still go to see him after four years, secondly, that he's a psychiatrist, not a counselor or psychologist (at least, I don't think so), and thirdly, he was using tough love.

So, anyway, he's asking what I've been up to in the last three or four months (long time since the last visit), and I say the usual: lookin' fer a jehb, driving places, and keeping myself otherwise distracted. No projects, no exercise, I answer him. Then, as if reaching into my own mind, he pulls out a familiar question: "How can you live with yourself?"

I knew at once that this was the "tough love." Surprised me, actually. I guess I'm becoming a more troublesome case. Secretly, however, I felt like this guy was a waste of my time since my medicine is doing its neurological trick and he's just my supplier, yo. So, my answer? "I ask myself that a lot."

The rest of the session was talk about me being more active; taking up some exercise and whatnot. Sage advise, but I have a horrible track record with it. Another sigh.

Wait, wait, wait. (Those were added in later for dramatic flare. Ooo!)

As I sit here, I see myself sliding down. Down to pessimism, down to hopelessness, down to a cold, cold heart. I don't want that. I'm quite fearful of it, actually. It frightens me to think about what a Will like that would do.

So, change of plans. I was going to continue my deprecating combo with a punch explaining why I am so often the instrument of my own failure and then follow through with a kick to the crotch of my future, but it's getting just a little too dark for me. I feel, or maybe even become, what I write, and I'm not going to write myself into oblivion.

I will hold on.

I will push onward.

I will press that flickering flame of hope and faith to my chest and wrap my world around it.

(I will have to do something about these mood swings.)

I Will.


Twilight out.