This entry is going to be long, as long as it takes to get all of this out of my head, and knowing me, that’ll be at least a couple of screen scrolls down. Maybe I’ll stick an outline up top, just to help you decide whether it’s going to be worth your time, perusing through this slough of words. Then again, maybe I won’t, as it’s nearly 2 a.m. and I feel kind of crappy.
I’ve been questioning my existence online today… I’m constantly signed into AIM– the only reasons I wouldn’t be are if 1) my Internet is down, 2) Kipper is running off the battery and is currently in sleep mode as per energy-saving settings, or 3) I’ve taken Kipper somewhere, like Summerlin– but I rarely ever *use* AIM. And given that most of my friends from high school and college live at least 300 miles away from me and AIM is the most convenient way for me to keep in touch with them, given that these are people I care about, you’d think I would be all about the IMs, and I used to be, but not so much anymore. I can’t remember the last time I initiated a conversation with anyone online, and it’s kind of sad.
With that in mind, I think my journal has become a sort of apology to those people, my way of saying, "Hi, here’s what’s been going on with me, sorry I haven’t been able to tell you directly and privately, but, um, yeah."
So… hi. Here’s what’s been going on with me. But first, let me stress that I AM OKAY AND AM NOT IN A WORRYABLE CONDITION. There are a million and one ways you could be spending your time wisely, and trust me, worrying about me is not even remotely close to being one of them, not even the million-and-one-th one. And that’s a number if I say so.
I honestly don’t know what’s been going on with me. I have a job. I have a house. I have a job that pays pretty well for my first full-time job ever, a job that pays pretty well for a newly-turned 21-year-old girl. I have a house which is looking nicer and nicer with each addition (the curtains got put up this afternoon).
As mentioned earlier, I should be happy. And as mentioned earlier, deep down, I think I am. But the rest of me, the layers of me that are more immediately accessible and thereby more prominent in my conscious observations, there’s an unhappiness that permeates my every iota of existence. And I hesitate to blame it on my situation because it feels so much like this has everything to do with the internal and nothing to do with the external.
I know everyone has, at least at one time in their life, a job they can’t stand, a job they could honestly say, and justifiably so, they hate. I know life has hard knocks and to go through life sheltered in a conflict-free, perfectly lovely world where everything comes up daisies and is filtered through rose-colored glasses, is a bad idea. Taking the sour to appreciate the sweet, etc. I know.
I don’t *hate* my job. But every Sunday for the last two or three weeks (okay, I guess that’s not a long enough time span to use the word "every," but it’s late and I’m tired so screw it), after I’ve woken up and I’ve realized that it’s Sunday, that it’s the last day of the weekend, that tomorrow I have to go back to work, that tomorrow is Monday and Monday is production day and oh god, not the same old shit again?– after I’ve realized all this, I feel whatever in me has been revived from Friday night or Saturday, die. My heart sinks, my stomach turns, and the panic attacks set in.
Granted, they’re mild panic attacks compared to ones I’ve had before under other circumstances, but they affect me all the same. And the thought alone of what’s to come on Monday actually prevents me from enjoying Sunday, which is half of my weekend. Which sucks. A lot.
I guess I’m just trying, as always, to figure out my life, and I’m probably not supposed to know for a while, but dammit, I want to know NOW. And right now, my life isn’t right, which means I haven’t figured it out yet. This isn’t what I want, this isn’t the career I want to invest my life into. But– I thought I loved doing this? And I do, part of me does, but apparently not enough– I don’t know. I don’t know anything tonight.
What I do love about this job, and maybe I’ve already said this, is the fact that I have tangible proof of my efforts, every week when the paper gets printed. I can hold it in my hands and say, this, this is a product of my labor. And I can’t get that, working in retail or in the service industry. And it’s something I’m finding I need.
But what I don’t love about this job is the repetition, and I struggle with this a lot, because I can’t think of a job that *isn’t* repetitive. So maybe it’s a matter of finding something I can tolerate repeating week after week with no end in sight?
And it always comes back to the arts. It always comes back to my ambitions to be a writer, a painter, an actress, a dancer, a photographer, a director. The writing thing is a big one; and you’d think, don’t I write enough?, based on the passel of entries I throw onto this site, but– oh, it’s different. This, to me, is nothing of substance, voice aside.
And in a day and age when it seems like everyone is putting out books, when anyone can get published and literature is falling apart at the seams– I feel almost blase when I think about the books, two in particular, I’ve wanted to write for so long now. Anyone can write a book; what makes me think I can write books that will still have literary value five, ten, twenty years down the road, if ever?
Well– my three years at USD do. In those three years, I received more than a few implications from more than a few professors who gave me the impression that I could actually do something with my writing. And maybe they were right, or maybe they weren’t, but what’s frustrating is that I can’t find out. Not now, and maybe not for a long time, and what if by the time I have the opportunity to sit down and write and research and interview and compose, it’s too late?
For the record, I suffer from small-town pastoralism. As much techno-joy as I encompass, it’s true.
This entry feels like it’s going nowhere in particular. I’ll wrap it up with this: I’ve never been so consciously unhappy in a situation yet at the same time, so unwilling to get out of it. And the reasons driving me to stay are all for other people– for my parents, for my sister, for The Guy, for my editor-in-chief, for everyone who could possibly become disappointed in me. So maybe actually all those reasons are at heart for me, for self-preservation, because I simply cannot cope with the mere prospect of people being disappointed in me.