Sometimes I almost miss the teen angst. I miss feeling like I could write (whether it was true or not). I miss myself as a teenager. At least parts of me. Overinflated ego, self righteousness, need, informed, empowered, harsh, out of control, certain, fearless.

I feel so much as though I'm drifting along these days. Everything is in black and white. I want to live in color again. My life is so boring. And I don't even have the right to complain about it. I have let it stagnate. I do nothing about it. Nothing really matters. I just don't care. Am I depressed? Not in the conventional sense that I have known in the past. But I am not really alive. It bores me to even think about my life. Everything revolves around my job and television.

I'm playing it safe I guess. I don't know how to take risks anymore. I'm not miserable at my job, but I am beginning to hate them. Maybe I don't hate them. Maybe I hate myself for settling for such a mundane life. For putting in so much time investing in a future that I don't want for myself. For trying to get myself excited about comfortable suburban life. Maybe it's time to work without the net.

In a way it is like I've been depressed. I have just stopped caring. I don't feel strongly about anything these days. No big ups, no big downs. Everything is somewhere in the lower portion of the middle. I haven't had a haircut in a year. I have gained 35 pounds in the last 7 months. I stopped wearing makeup. I stopped plucking my eyebrows. I stopped putting on lotion, painting my nails, pushing back my cuticles, changing my earrings, blowdrying my hair and brushing my teeth regularly. I just don't care anymore. It just doesn't seem to matter somehow. But I'm disturbed by it when I start to think about it all. I want to care, at least a little. Not about my appearance per se, but about taking care of myself. And to some extent, I do need to care about how I look just a little bit more. I'm becoming a slob.

I think the breakup with the boy started things in that direction. I always tend to let my body go when I'm not having sex. But, it went much further than it normally has in the past. I guess part of me just gave up. It was like admitting defeat in a way. There were times in that relationship (if you could call it that), even before it ended, when I had the thought that it might be my last (remotely) romantic relationship in my life. So much of it was forced. It was like I was trying to care about someone (anyone) that way. I wanted to make myself believe that I could have those kind of feelings, and he was there so I told myself he would do.

Maybe I'm just jaded and it has been too long. I haven't felt that thing about anyone in years. I haven't been in a real relationship where I actually gave a shit about the other person in over 4 years. I am completely disconnected with that part of myself. It's a foreign concept right now.

I don't even know what I'm talking about anymore. I'm rambling. I hate my own stream-of-consciousness writing. It makes me feel crazy. I should just go to bed.

I just don't want to look back on my life at 53 years of age and realize that I never found true satisfaction. I don't want to become my mother.

 

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