Please Just Take Me Away

All I do is complain about things on the internet.

Photo by Danie Franco on Unsplash

It’s hard to know where to begin sometimes when the world just feels like the shittiest place in the Universe to be and we’re stuck here on this rock forever.

Well, people like me are stuck on this rock forever, but there are plenty who have no qualms about paying millions of dollars to be shot into space while millions of people in America are homeless and hungry.

That’s part of the reason I am so angry all the time.

I am very angry at rich people.

If I didn’t work at a homeless shelter that relied on donations to stay open, I would get the words EAT THE RICH tattooed right on my arm where everyone can see. Maybe I can find a font that is filigreed enough to make it hardly noticeable at first glance.

Back after a half hour of looking for a good font and failing to find one because I suffer from decision fatigue.

I suffer from a lot of things, and some people close to me will tell you I complain too much and focus too much on my problems and not on the positive things in life.

But again — I’m having trouble finding the beauty and the positivity that is allegedly out there.

I’m having trouble finding the wild precious things in life, but maybe I’m looking in the wrong places. I am looking for external things to validate me and make me feel like I am living a good life, when really I should be looking inward and trying to find out what it is I really want to get out of my remaining years shuffling this mortal coil.

A few months ago, I started seeing a woman who markets herself as an “existential therapist” which is good cause that is exactly what I was looking for in particular. Not just a therapist who would do skill building, EMDR, and give me homework, but also someone who could commiserate with me about the… random, purposeless, and terrible things that happen in the world.

It’s the purposeless feeling I have that really gets to me.

The feeling that nothing I do in my life matters, because as soon as I am gone I will be forgotten, and if I am remembered at all, I fear I won’t be remembered well because I’ve often behaved very badly.

Meanwhile, I try to make a living writing.

This is kind of a joke, especially for someone just starting out on Medium with no followers and no platform to speak of.

I’ve been a writer for decades but I have never been confident enough to edit something publishable, or even submittable material. I always end up telling myself:

“This is crap, you are crap, you’ll always be crap,”

And then the other Evey on my shoulder says:

“This is just a lie you are telling to yourself and you don’t have to believe it if you choose not to.”

This is one of the helpful things about therapy, the skills I learn, like how to tell myself my brain is lying to myself.

Being mentally ill is awesome, ain’t it?

This has been a rambling nonsensical post that surely no one will read but here I am anyway, showing up every day even if I have no idea what to say.