This Is a Real Post. I am not funny…today.

I originally titled this “not a real post” but it occurs to me this sort of…confession, I suppose, is more “real” than the snarky commentary posts. Someone asked me once why I write anything personal and put it out there for consumption, the argument being that it’s intended to elicit emotional response. I maintain it’s a way for me to be open in a way I’m often not able to in person. Shrug. I don’t need a response. I don’t really need anyone to read it. I post these sometimes because I’ve been helped in the past by people sharing their struggles, and I need to pay that forward.

I caught part of the Kardashian show today (it wasn’t on purpose: I was making grilled cheese and didn’t realize the show I’d been watching ended…Don’t judge me!). Anyway…I came to a fairly uncomfortable conclusion.

I don’t understand ambitious people. I really don’t: I don’t understand entrepreneurs of any kind (and yes, the Kardashian clan has made money off of their modeling, sex tape, and basic socialite reality TV, but there’s no arguing they are a successful brand). It’s not the work: I can work. It’s not about the glitzy life or the big money: I’m not jealous watching anyone’s life on Reality TV (or social media). It’s the “making” opportunities, the energy for constant “doing” that I don’t understand in my guts. I’ve always been a planner, not a doer. It’s getting me nowhere. Let me explain.

I have a book to finish. A book I really think I can write (when I manage to hogtie and gag the internal editor in a basement room of my mind). A book that is me taking a step toward getting out of a job I don’t love, a step toward making income that could potentially help us not worry so much about money all the time. A book that I’d write to get it out even if I was guaranteed it will never make money or even be published, because I have to write it. I have a plan. I have an outline. I have characters. I have a plot…but I perpetually find other things to do instead of writing, knowing (and feeling guilty) I’m putting it off.

I trap myself in my own inertia.

The amount of weight I need to lose to be healthy is somewhat overwhelming, even if I think of it in 10 pound increments. Or 5 pounds, or even just 2. More importantly, I need to eat better and exercise more to FEEL better. I know this, and so I make a plan. An easy plan: 30 minutes a day, eating more fruit and veggies (which I LIKE: it’s not a hardship).

So far, I’ve actually done the opposite of everything on said plan.

I have a home to unpack, a desk to set up, cleaning to finish. Cleaning to start.

Those little guilts are the terrible, insidious worms that crawl within the depressions that hit me. Like the proverbial thousand cuts, all they irritate and build and distract until I’m overwhelmed and bleeding out, energy-less and unable to actually DO any of the activities that would make me feel better. 

Today, I didn’t leave the couch except to take care of the dogs, wash my sheets (so I’m comfy in bed later) and get unhealthy fast food for dinner. I didn’t work on the short story or the book. I KNEW I was sinking and couldn’t do anything to stop it. Or, I just didn’t do anything to stop it.

Recently I won something really cool. Something so cool I didn’t actually believe my name was called. I didn’t speak up, didn’t claim the prize I’d won, because I found myself physically unable to respond AT ALL. I couldn’t raise my hand, couldn’t get a word out of my mouth, and it was all for NO FUCKING REASON AT ALL. I stood in the crowd, anonymously allowing an opportunity a lot of people would fight over to go to the next name called. WHY? I don’t know. I couldn’t really explain it to Husband (who wasn’t in the room and couldn’t speak up for me, which I’m sure he would’ve done had he been there). He was disappointed in me: I saw it. I was disappointed in myself.  I still am.

I don’t know why I sabotage myself: it’s the most fucked up sort of self-harming destructive behavior I do: it’s like I’m rebelling against anything positive even though I WANT those positive chances. And every time I squander one, or waste time, or find I’ve lost a day to stupid shit I wonder just how many chances I’ll be allowed. And I feel guilty and ashamed for being frozen, and inertia is followed by depression.

It’s a goddamned cycle of ishy.

Sometimes it feels like I’m stuck in a giant, sucking spiral…Charybdis inexorably spinning me faster and deeper into the black nothing at the bottom, waiting to swallow me whole.

I’m unbalanced and short sighted and scared, and it’s just so damn tiring. I WANT to understand ambitious people. I WANT to understand entrepreneurs. I WANT to be successful at my own goals. It’s frustrating as hell to battle this crap, and I know it’ll be better soon (maybe not tomorrow, but within the next few days…usually these pass within a few days as my energy returns over a weekend) and I’ll work on the book again and get my house in order and get back on the daily walking thing.

But just for tonight, I wish I understood.

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