About Me (not)

I’m going to stop talking about myself. I look back at what I’ve posted, here and elsewhere, and the most boring of it was when I was talking about myself. I’m realizing this because I’ve been bored lately by other blogs where people are talking about themselves. We all need to work things out. But it enables depression.

It’s been who I am for my entire life. I’ve always felt this driving need to “express myself.” I’ve always had this unrealistic pipe dream that I would get to know me, and other people would get me too. I even thought it would help them. Yeah, I thought that understanding me could help them. 

And at the same time, I’ve always been embarrassed about who I am, in so many ways, which feeds the need to justify myself, and everything about me: that I smoke pot, that I wish I were a man, that I actually do have goals, even if I don’t achieve them.

No more. I’m just going to talk about things that happen and my opinions from now on. Whatever you want to know about me, you can just observe, in real life, or by what I say in between the lines and what I think about stuff. If you intuit something that may or may not be true, you’re not getting confirmation from me. It doesn’t matter, and you think what you want. I don’t care. I am what I am.

If something about me just comes out while I’m talking about something else, it will be more like a reveal. Like, oops, did that slip out? If it’s relevant to the topic, and adds some perspective, or humor, then I’ll make the exception. If you want to know about me, you can wait for those tidbits (or you can ask me). Otherwise, you will know me by who I am and what I do or don’t do. My actions will say it all, and they won’t lie.

Seriously, this is the last time I’m going to talk about myself.

We Need to Talk to Our Kids

The weed that young people are smoking these days is wack. It’s nothing like the stuff I grew up with, which I discovered, quite by accident, was therapeutic. I could be more well adjusted and more productive and happier. Who knew? But what is standard today is not even any good. They have bred these unnatural strains that are almost all THC, at the expense of everything else in the plant, and they end up with something that is more like a hard drug, stupefying, heart racing, dumbifying, maybe even addictive, and purely recreational, if you can call it that. And it smells like skunk. That is not a good smell, people. We used to bathe ourselves in tomato juice to get that smell off of us. 

I think people should wise up. If they think weed is or can be a positive thing in their lives, then they should use it for such. And if it’s not helping them be better versions of themselves, whatever that means to them, then they should quit (or change the how and the what).

I’m not liking what weed has become. There should be marketing or press about the differences between use that is responsible and use that is “unproductive,” let’s say. It is ok to acknowledge and teach people about how it can be used productively, and to discourage excess. 

Am I just old? or is this wisdom?

I guess I think that those who have been around awhile should teach what they know. Of course, in order to do that we have to talk to our own kids.

Less is More

The kids have moved out, the husband is off on a trip with his sister and I am living the life, except that I have to work, but I’ll do as little of that as possible.

I plan to minimize while they’re away. I’m going to give away all his shit. Just kidding. I’m not that bold, though I wish I were.

Because I don’t have as much shit. When I’m done giving away my shit, there will still be a lot. But I want to be able to say, “all of this shit is yours.”

It won’t be easy. I’m not good at this. I may fail. And there’s work involved. It will feel like work. But I’ll try to have fun. I texted to my husband, “have fun,” and he said back, “you too, lol.” He knows I like to be by myself.

I may not actually give everything away. I may store some of it in a box. Even with the things I’m not sure I can give away, I want to see what the place would look like without them. So, hopefully just one box of stuff. It’s a step in the right direction. Maybe some of that stuff gets given to friends or family. I won’t have to decide right now. But at least I’ll know where all of my shit is, and it will be in one place.

Isn’t that grand? I hope it will be. I also plan to write in this blog while he’s gone. And smoke weed. At the same time!

Did I just say that out loud? Am I live?

I’m Not Good

I’m depressed again.  My job has no meaning for me and I don’t feel like I contribute to this world at all.

I worry that global warming will extinguish all life on the planet, which dwarfs the concerns I used to hold dear, like freedom, and happiness. There’s nothing that I can do. It’s like voting. I always vote. I always will. Fuck you if you don’t. But my vote never makes a difference, especially in that my candidates usually lose, and when they don’t, it’s never been by one vote.

So even if I am carbon negative (it is apparently correct to say carbon negative, or climate positive), how much can one girl do?

I may not be as big of a drain on the environment as some people, but the world would still be a better place without me, if only because environmental problems can be traced back to over-population. 

Maybe I shouldn’t worry.  If our souls don’t have a place to reincarnate, then I should take the rest of this life to grow as much as I can at least. What’s the point of abdicating opportunity that exists, just because we may not have that chance in the future? I may still have time.

But how? How do I live my life in a way that helps me to grow while working at a meaningless job?

Maybe I could have pushed people into caring about the environment, if I had devoted my life to it. Then I could have been climate positive.

Y’know, solar panels on my house can offset the impact of our two cars. But that’s just the way they measure it. In reality, the panels won’t even pay for all of my household electricity, so the world would still be better off without me, environmentally. Unless, in some way, somehow, someone takes my place. Like if I create a void for someone to fill. I don’t know how that works. I guess I won’t kill myself.

Of all the things my husband wastes money on (I go along for the ride), solar panels might be worth it to me. Fuck you if you don’t get solar panels. They’re 30% off – this year only (tax credit). C’mon, am I supposed to delay my retirement by spending money on solar panels, in a fruitless effort to stop global warming, by myself? I, too, want to retire so that I can learn and grow and become enlightened and figure out other ways to change the world. But I’ll make some sacrifices.

Yeah. Nobody is going to join me. Especially since nobody reads this.

How do you stop from feeling hopeless? (weed?) If people start dying off, when the world gets too hot, and there are less bodies for the souls, are the ones that get reborn the ones that demonstrated a previous commitment to carbon zero? Will I be rewarded in my next life, if there is any? I have a lot of good questions. I’m like Socrates. Can I change the world, just by asking questions?

Cause I’m not good at actually doing anything.

Home Churching

How do we know whether someone is being serious? Take Jesus for example.

I’m visiting my childhood home, and I found a book in my mom’s bedroom. The women has books. There had always been a wall to wall bookcase in the living room, completely full. But since I moved out (a long long time ago, ok, we don’t need to go there), the books have multiplied, spread and invaded every room. There’s another bookcase on the (enclosed) terrace and books out there in boxes, and in every nook where you can fit some shelves anywhere in the house.

I’m checking out the titles, cause I’m curious enough for that, and am surprised to find The Gospel of Thomas and the Gnostic Gospels in her bedroom, books that might be more at home in my own library (I do own the latter), because she is an avowed atheist.

Now, I’ve got the house to myself, so I figure I could either read or masturbate (or both).

I know a little about the Gnostics. They respect (doubting) Thomas and Mary Magdalene more than their orthodox cousin Christians. Their Jesus advocates for equality. He admonishes Peter, I think it was, for being jealous of the equal or greater respect afforded Mary by Jesus, according to Gnostic texts.

That she sees him first when he rises from the dead, also suggests something to them about her stature.

And the Gnostics were less hierarchical, if at all, than orthodoxy.

In my mother’s book Jesus warns against speaking without listening. “… It is what comes out of your mouth that will defile you. “

He even downplays his own authority. “I am not your teacher. … you have become intoxicated from the babbling spring that I have tended.”

He directs us inward.

“When you know yourselves,” he says, “then you will be known. …. but if you do not know yourselves, then you dwell in poverty.”

He even criticizes himself. “Perhaps people think that I have come to impose peace upon the world. They do not know that I have come to impose conflicts upon the earth: fire, sword, war. “

Is he saying that is what we should do in his name? That would be inconsistent with the Jesus we know as a pacifist.

More likely he is lamenting what will be the results of his coming.

“The trouble you expect will come. Let there be among you a person who understands.”

This is his prayer, his hope. But he doesn’t name a particular person. Just anyone who can understand.

So what do you make of this: When the followers said to Jesus, “we know you are going to leave us. Who will be our leader?” He says, “no matter where you are, you are to go to James the just, for whose sake heaven and earth came into being.”

Is that to be taken literally? We all know that elsewhere Jesus said, “do not judge, lest ye be judged.” But what does it mean to call someone “the just”? What other reason than to give that person permission to make judgments?

So, we are not to judge, except for James? James doesn’t have to worry about being judged himself? He is above reproach?

Or is Jesus being sarcastic? How and when do we know whether to take Jesus seriously? That’s my question. In this case, are we to believe that Jesus really believes that heaven and earth was created for James? Just James? (No pun intended)

Or maybe he’s criticizing James or those that revere him too much. Sure, the heavens and earth move for him. At least that’s what he thinks.

It’s more likely Jesus means that whoever you trust, don’t trust James. Or maybe don’t even trust James, as revered as he may be. We are supposed to know and understand that Jesus is being facetious, because the heavens and earth do not move for any one person and Jesus knows we know that. Who should lead? That one person for whom heaven and earth was created, who doesn’t exist, which brings us back to what Jesus has said before: Trust yourself. Trust yourself, or no one, not even Jesus.

Have Fun Trying

I’m right about a lot of things. If only I had more time to think, then I would be right more often.

I haven’t been here a lot because I’ve been limiting myself to keeping a diary, in order to learn more about myself and to think about things. That’s what journaling is for me, it is thinking. And I hope that the time will come when I will be able to go public with what I think. But I fall off the wagon and stop journaling, whenever I start working on something to share, even though I’m not ready. And I am not ready. I’ve never been ready. I don’t know myself well enough. I hear you. Sometimes we just have to take a leap of faith. Like we are never ready to have children, but we need to start or we lose the opportunity. And writings are children. We have more time, but like with children, you need to get pregnant first. And sometimes you just can’t get pregnant.

So that’s what I’m doing right here, with my journals. I am trying to get myself pregnant. I am fucking myself. I am masturbating. I write about writing, about relationships, about work, about nothing, about everything. It is self indulgent. I am learning about every nook and crevice of my mind and soul, really really slowly, too slowly (feels like). And that is because I’m trying to get pregnant.

I like this metaphor. It’s an amazing thing to be pregnant. And fun to try, right? I like freewriting about nothing and everything. It’s fun. I don’t have to procrastinate it, because there are no rules. You just have to Rye Tennything. But when it comes to actually growing a work, of course that’s harder. You can’t quit after you’re already pregnant. I need to get so pregnant that I can’t stop writing that thing that just has to be born.  

So that’s my advice to you this morning. Play with yourself. Fuck yourself. Whether you are a writer, or a musician, or an artist, or whatever is an art to you. Whatever is a calling. Running a business can be a calling. Um. filing tax returns? Regarding whatever it is that floats your boat, fuck yourself until you make yourself pregnant, or at least have fun trying.  

I am the new Seth Godin.

A Sepiphany

I’ve had an epiphany. What do I mean by epiphany? A thought that came to me suddenly that changes the way I am thinking about something. That’s all. It’s not huge. It’s a little awakening. It’s a lawakening. A small epiphany. A sepiphany. Here it is:

I spend a lot of effort justifying my pot smoking. You’ve seen it, if you’ve read my other posts. I detail many positives, how it helps me to combat many symptoms, that might or might not be part of any clinical diagnosis. I make good arguments, in my mind, and support them well, and try hard to convince anyone who is willing to hear them. But now I realize that it is accurate to simply say that I smoke it for depression.

What is depression anyway?

I say that I feel better about who I am, that I am motivated, that I believe I can finish things, that I am willing to push through unpleasant tasks, confident in the satisfaction it will bring me upon completion. I say I am more patient, more in the moment, more attentive as a mom and wife. I enjoy sex more. I say that it is the difference between being happy and unhappy.

What else is it curing for me, than things which are simply put, symptoms of depression? And maybe people understand, or at least accept, that depression is a real thing. Some people will probably still say that I should take something prescribed by a doctor, even if it’s more toxic, and possibly addictive and may not even work (we don’t know), in lieu of something that is proven to work, at least on me, and I’m the only one we’re talking about right now. Actually, I’ve tried that. It’s like going to the eye doctor. They give you one thing and ask you if you feel better. And if you say no, they try something else and ask you, again, for your subjective evaluation. If you say yes (I can see!) you stay on that until maybe you wonder whether it’s just the mindfulness of the question that made you think you felt better. Mindfulness can help. Noticing when you feel good and when you feel bad can help you identify triggers, at least. And then you realize that there is already something that you know works for you and even helps you with the mindfulness.

My neuroscientist friend who says that studies support the notion that pot use affects the developing brain, suggests that it could be the cause of my depression. That’s a valid theory. I don’t know what I would be like if I didn’t smoke at 13. But is he assuming that this is true? Because, I don’t want to tell him how to do his job, but the only scientific conclusion we can make about  its effect on me is that we don’t know.

We can look for evidence to support the theory. We might expect, for example, that if pot caused my depression, then I would not have had symptoms before I started smoking. I have an early memory, early enough that I can’t really pinpoint the time, elementary school, I think, 6th grade at the latest, in which I am standing in front of a mirror crying and saying to the me in the reflection, “I hate myself.” I’m welling up a little remembering what that felt like.

The sense that I don’t like myself goes back. I remember wanting to be an actress because I liked pretending to be someone else. All of that came before I ever smoked pot. Whether there were other effects that were somewhat permanent, I still don’t know, maybe never will. But I haven’t found evidence that there was. 

So unless you have some other reason for wanting to believe that, I don’t think it’s a logical conclusion, either, that kids should take adderall, or lexapro, or whatever else they are prescribing kids today over a less toxic alternative which they may choose to self-medicate with, but would be better off taking under some kind of supervision.

Crying in the mirror as a tweenie was most probably related to my gender dysphoria, which was also a likely founding factor for the chronic minor depression that I have struggled with my entire life. When I smoke pot, I’m not cured of that, but I’m ok with it. I like who I am, despite it, accepting of the feminine and masculine. It seems less significant to me, because I can be happy anyway. Would you deny me that?

Bloated

I have allowed myself to get out of shape. So much so that when I go for a walk it tires me and I start getting heart palpitations. I also feel bad. And I’m depressed. And I don’t eat well. Not necessarily in that order.

It all accumulates in my stomach.  

They say the stomach is the second brain.  At least for girls it is. For guys it could be the third brain, after the brain.

We all  know what they think with. HA HA HA.

They say this because mood is affected by the stomach. I think there is serotonin there.

For me, when my stomach is bloated, I feel overwhelmed. But when I am hungry for food, I am hungry for life. I like feeling hungry for life. When my stomach feels thin, I feel like there is weight lifted off me, I feel emotionally energetic, almost, dare I say it? happy. When I am in control of my core, I control my life.

I need to feel better.  There’s no doubt about this.

Today, I toked some weed and went for a short bike ride. Then I stopped for some coffee and opened up my laptop, which I carried on my back while I rode.  So, it’s a step in the right direction.

How well I do with this new routine, will be evidenced by whether I keep posting. So you’ll know, dear reader.  Thank you for coming, by the way. If it weren’t for you, I’d have no one. You may be all I need. Please tell me you love me.

Anyway, I have hopes for myself. I’ve always had hopes. And though I’ve never really felt like I was who I wanted to be, there are times when I rise above and can observe myself from the outside, and it’s those times when I can be happy to be alive, because I perceive that I am more than just this. That this is just a piece of me. That it’s ok to just be a piece at any given point in time.

At least I know. At least I know what I am. I don’t know how anyone can live without that. I want to stay there.

Medicine

Someone recently asked me what it is that I think Marijuana fixes for me. And I said, “oh so many things.” I can describe my ailments and complaints very specifically but not as some defined and established diagnosis. It wouldn’t be incorrect to say that it helps me with my depression, or my ADD or my gender confusion, but that’s just the least of it, almost the frosting, the ancillary benefits. It’s a reasonable question, and if I make the claim that I use it for therapeutic reasons, I ought to be able to explain that. I anticipate having to explain it, despite that I’m never pressed to explain why I drink coffee, or alcohol, or take vitamins or do yoga or write. I can just say I enjoy those things. But there’s pressure when you think something like marijuana is positive and healthy, to defend it. So I wasn’t unprepared. I think about it all the time. But I was also smoking recreationally at the time of this question, asked by a man I was smoking with, who happens to  be a neuroscientist, and so it took me a minute to gather my stoned ass thoughts. But I thought it was a fair question, and not asked with any judgement, given the circumstances, and so I was resolved to make my best attempt despite myself.

Let me start by saying that the recreational smoking that I was doing at the time of this conversation was not the kind that I’m calling medicinal. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with it, using marijuana recreationally, just because you like it, and I do that too. But it’s not what I really crave, and it doesn’t address my issues to smoke late at night with friends, and maybe while also having a cocktail. And the more and more I experiment with this the more I feel like I don’t even necessarily like to smoke with people. I don’t like to smoke at night. I don’t like to smoke and drink at the same time.

If I were to use it primarily as a therapeutic aid, and that’s all I need, I would use it differently, and I would argue that for most people in my situation, it should be used less to be used effectively. I’m not saying that all medicinal use should be less, if you’re using if for pain, or for cancer, or for autoimmune disease, or gastrointestinal disorders, or major depression, or anything other than the kinds of things I use it for, then you would have to determine your own appropriate dose, whatever dosage would be considered “therapeutic,” e.g. enough for the desired result, and definitely not less. I think pot is safe enough it’s probably ok to err on the side of too much, but too much can also be a problem.

For me, the high is almost a side effect. I find that if I get up really early, like 5AM, and take a single hit, then I do yoga, write a little, take a shower, masturbate, just kidding, or maybe not, shave my legs brush my teeth all of that, get dressed for work have some breakfast, drink some coffee, then by the time I go to work, it’s been 3 hours and the high has worn off, but I still feel great all day. I like myself. I prefer to smoke when I’m able to be alone for a couple of hours. I don’t want to interact with people while I’m feeling a little paranoid or if I think they can tell I’m stoned. I’m self conscious about it. It’s for this reason that I don’t even like to use it recreationally unless everyone is doing it, and even then it becomes a waiting game for it to wear off a little. But I am less socially anxious if I come to a group setting a couple hours after having a single hit than I would be right after or even if I had not smoked at all.

That’s therapeutic.

So to answer his question I said this. I said that from the time when I was young, 9th grade, when I first smoked, almost daily, and then on into the later years of high school when I stopped smoking, except occasionally, I knew that what I liked about it was not being high as much as how I felt when I had been smoking, but wasn’t actually high at the moment. And I liked either smoking regularly or not at all. I wasn’t as enamored of the occasional. I wanted to get into a managed state of mind. I explained how it resolves issues that have no particular diagnosis, like how when I smoke I feel connected to my past and my future. Otherwise I feel like my past was a different person, and that my future is outside my control. I am more introspective, more meditative, more still. I feel better, physically. I didn’t go so far as to elaborate on what that meant, that I feel comfortable with my body. I stopped short of intimating anything about my gender diaspora. Not ready to tell people that. I also would not go so far as to say it is any kind of cure. What it does do, is helps me to rise above myself a little and observe almost from the outside. I still would rather be a man, but the body I have doesn’t bother me as much, almost as if, outside of it, it is no longer as much of an interference. I can feel a little more like a man, who just happens to control a woman’s body. I become, as a result, a little less judgmental towards myself. 

That’s therapeutic.

I also find myself having more fortitude. For example, so often it’s the case that I am thinking, that I don’t want to be doing something, my job for instance, and just can’t make myself work, almost like it’s a protest against choices that earlier me made, like I don’t want to benefit from her mistakes, or give her credit, or accept even the possibility that she could have been right. Unhappy with the decisions that got me here, I go so far as to say to myself that “I just am and always will be a failure.” Yes, it’s that bad. Then I smoke, or even 4 hours afterwards, it’s like I suddenly grow ovaries.  I’m like, “why am I being such a wimp,” and I just do it, whatever it is. What else is there to do? That becomes my attitude. Can do. I don’t like my job more, not at all, but I force myself, because I know I’ll feel better if I get things done. I still have to fight distraction, but I’m determined.

I don’t see how that can’t be good.

I don’t want to give too  much credit to the people who always tell us to be like that. It’s not that they’re wrong, the people who always tell you to “just do it,” they’re not. It’s that they’re telling people who find that difficult, to “just” do what they find easy. It’s not helpful, and it makes me feel judged by them when I’m already judging myself. I’m sensitive about that. It would be particularly ironic if the same person who judges me for that, judges me for solving it by smoking pot. I suspect that there are parents who discover that their teens smoke pot and send them for help because they think pot is a problem, when pot could be the solution to a different problem. Hopefully, they address the underlying issue. I once told my therapist, my parents didn’t send me to one, they thought it was quackery, that I wanted to smoke pot, and she said, “what’s stopping you?” So I started again.

He tells me, the neuroscientist, that the evidence shows that pot is bad for developing brains (like mine when I smoked in ninth grade). He has credentials. And he’s a pothead himself, which I mention because I’m often, and for good reasons, skeptical of the sources of scientific evidence, so he’s not biased. I would argue, though, that if you suffer from something that would otherwise be treated with something more toxic, antidepressants, or opiod pain killers, prescription stimulants, acid blockers, etc, then pot may be an even more effective, and most likely safer, alternative to the legal drugs that kids are otherwise prescribed.

I, for one, remember the benefits when I was 13 as being the same as what I experience now in my 50s (I hate saying my age – I may also have age diaspora, lol). It makes me wonder how different my brain really was. In the 9th grade, early I know for drugs, I did well academically. And I had a more active social life and better friendships. I still think of it as the happiest year of my life. Now, not being aware of what I know now, I tended to smoke too much, I tended to suffer too much from the negative side effects, the paranoia, etc, and at the end of the year, I decided it was interfering with my life and I stopped, which is something I often regret, or regret that it took so long to get back into it. But I do typically present this as evidence that it isn’t addictive. I smoked it “too much” for a year and then decided to stop and did.

The only negative effects of quitting were not distinguishable from the symptoms I suffered before I ever started.

If you don’t want your children to smoke that young, it’s understandable. Keep in mind that if you would view me as a bad role model, that I didn’t do any other kinds of drugs. Among most of my friends today, though I may have smoked pot at a younger age, I am a lightweight. I’ve never done cocaine, or even speed, LSD or mushrooms, blues or reds or yellows or greens, whatever they were. It might be because I recognized early that pot was constructive only if I did it daily and that I was looking for a permanent solution not a a temporary one, to whatever I thought my problem was. If something were to make me feel better, I’d want it all the time, or not at all. And if a drug would inevitably lead to addiction, then I couldn’t use it that way, and I didn’t see the point of doing it at all.

The conclusion I have come to is that I think pot is the key to my happiness, yet important for me to do it at the right times and in small doses. I am a woman with many things to do. I just can’t afford to be stoned all the time, though there are certain things worth doing stoned, yoga and writing, though I think there’s something to be said for sober re-writing. I find that it’s a good wake me up. A good way to start the day, and a good incentive to get up early. If I know my whole day will depend on it, and if I know that as tired as I am when the alarm goes off, that I won’t be as tired once I take a hit, then it can get me up and keep me going strong. By the evening I’m relaxed and tired and ready to sleep well.

Happiness

For almost as long as I can remember I have suffered from chronic minor depression. It’s always there either in the forefront or hiding in the shadows, but there. It’s characterized by hopelessness, and a deep seeded disappointment in myself. In an effort to be honest, I have purposefully indulged it, and driven myself to some dark places. At one such time I wrote an email to a male friend from a long time ago who I didn’t even date, and apologized to him for having let us both down. I never got a response.

I call it minor for one reason. I have never been suicidal. I don’t know why. I am lucky. I never let go of this irrational belief that things can get better, despite all historical evidence to the contrary.

I have at times looked forward to when I will die, hopefully of old age. Kind of like when you take a vacation and are ready to go home. You may have days left, but you forge on, and keep trying to enjoy yourself, because you know the end will be here soon enough. That’s how I feel about death. Knowing it will come, comforts me, but I don’t have to rush it.

I’m not religious, so I don’t believe that I get to go “home” in the religious sense, or to meet Jesus in heaven, which I don’t really think exists except in the possible sense that our souls may get promoted to some sort of supervisory role in an afterlife, at least I’m open to that idea. So when I say that it will be a beautiful day, it’s not because I think I’m going to meet my maker, it’s because I will have no obligation, or responsibility. There will be no reason, anymore, to try.

When you know it’s over, that’s when you can finally breath, so to speak. Not literally. Literally you might not be able to breath.

But we will all die. That’s the good news. Why rush it?

But seriously, if our spirits live on, if we are all, essentially, immortal, like many religions believe, and I think it’s possibly true, then suicide is futile. Maybe that’s the reason I’ve never considered it a viable option. It might very well be that I believe it to be impossible to kill yourself.

When I was young, and this may have been before I was depressed, I said I’ve had it almost as long as I could remember, I believed that the purpose of life was to have fun. I reasoned myself to this obvious conclusion, when I was first learning how to reason. This was the theory of a child whose mind was as yet unencumbered by the expectations of society. But It is not so different from Thomas Jefferson’s inalienable right to the pursuit of happiness. Could our purpose on this world be anything other than to learn how to be happy? Isn’t that what God would want, if He was unhappy?

If we are part of God, which I also think is a reasonable theory, God would want us to be happy, out of self-interest. It makes sense that the more of us that are happy, the happier God would be. And to the extent it might be possible for us to tap into this collective, if you will, then even more of us could be happy, and God gets even happier. Happiness is contagious!

Maybe this is why people say that service makes them happy. On it’s face, you would have to sacrifice spending time on your own dreams in order to serve others. And yet, those who serve would testify to the opposite. We need everyone to be happy.

My husband thinks my unhappiness as innate. He accepts that about me, without judgement. I ought to be grateful for that but what if it’s not who I have to be? If you accept it, it means you don’t lift a finger to change it. Why I’m depressed wouldn’t matter. It’s just innate. Perhaps it is a defense mechanism for him to think so, so he doesn’t have to take it personally.

I’ll tell you something. At work I often find myself obsessed with trying to figure out why I’m unhappy. It distracts me from working.

Maybe I hate my job, or maybe their are personal reasons. Maybe I don’t like being married, or maybe I just don’t like myself (THAT’S IT!). But why?  

I don’t love my job, but I’m ok with responsibilities. There are sacrifices we make to have the things we want. What makes me unhappy is when I make the sacrifices and still don’t get what I want.

Brainstorming what I want:

  1. Might as well put it out there. I’d rather have a dick. That alone would make me happy, I think.  But it’s not going to happen. 
  2. I don’t have enough time alone.
  3. People judge me, and so I  feel like I need to pretend. I’d like to pretend that I’m pretending. Then I could be myself.

Maybe I need to say things that are so outlandish that people don’t know if I’m kidding.

As for solitude, that should be doable, unless I need too much. I might need less, if I felt free to be myself.

I know. I need to be more honest with my husband. If I can’t be, then I really should leave him. What’s the easier, between two things that seem impossible?

I should tell people I’m unhappy. And when they ask me why I can say “because people judge me.” They can say, “who judges you,” and I can say, “I don’t know.”

I don’t have to tell them that I would prefer to have a dick.

I’ll tell you something else, the only way I can ever focus at work, and the only way I can ever write something that is insightful and true, is if I find a way to be honest.

Wow, epiphany (and duh). I have to be honest to be happy.  I don’t know if that’s good news or bad news.