Emotional Rollercoaster

     Being young in the 21st century is no easy task.  Sometimes, it is also inexplicable.  For instance, today I am in an absolutely amazing mood.  My classes went smoothly, the sneak-evaluation my boss gave me was excellent, I received praise from a veteran teacher who overheard one of my classes and specifically went to my boss to tell her about it (yes!), it's the second day in a row that it's not absolutely freezing, and also receiving positive feedback about this blog of mine made my day wonderful.  I think the only thing that would make me happier would be sitting on the beach, sipping a tropical drink, being in the same physical shape I used to be in while wearing my bikini, and have a gorgeous, wealthy, intelligent guy sitting next to me. Okay, so that's multiple things. Actually, forget the guy; I feel so good I don't even need one of those.
     But, I don't always feel this way.  Nobody does.  If they do, there's probably something wrong with them.  If there's nothing wrong with them, then please, give me one of whatever they're on.  Anyways, I was talking with my mom last night about being depressed, sad, down, blue, whatever you want to call it.  Now, my mom is the type of woman who worries incessantly.  Perhaps even obsessively.  I love her dearly, but sometimes I need to remind her that it's impossible for my sister and I to be perfectly happy all the time and that even though it is difficult for her to see us unhappy, it is normal.
     But has it always been normal?  Obviously, being born in 1986, I have no clue what it was like to grow up in the '50s and '60s like my mom and dad.  The only way I can judge the emotional climate of that generation is through music.  Think about it.  Have you ever heard a depressing Beatles song?  If you have, it probably wasn't one of their greatest hits.  What about all the other bands/artists from that time period?  The do-wap and pop music certainly wasn't a downer.  Even the rock music of that period never got very in touch with the darker side of the human psyche.  Not any of the mainstream stuff, anyways.  If songs weren't all sunshine and rainbows, they were rebellious.  Bands like the Rolling Stones were what the non-conformist youngsters looked up to.  With the arrival of the seventies they started to get a little sadder with songs like "Wild Horses," and "Angie," but again, I'm talking about my parents.  They grew up with the Beatles and the Monkees, Mo-Town and what I like to generally call "happy pop."
     Enter the '70s.  The Stones started to write some sadder songs, Led Zeppelin came along, and a plethora of other amazing, sort of trippy, post-love-and-happines of the '60s hippie-ish, "I'm cool and bad ass and there's no questioning that," kind  of music.  This sort of mixed the rebellious with a little more of the sad aspect of life.  Then, sometime around the horrible era of music occurring in the '80s called "hair-metal" ended, we saw something different. In my humble opinion (I by no means claim to be a music expert), The Cure's arrival on the music scene began the formation of a youth culture in which it was actually acceptable to be sad, at least sometimes.  With his black clothes, eyeliner, dirty appearance, weird hair and quirky lyrics, Robert Smith became an idol for angst-ridden, edgy, rebellious, overall "cool" teens and 20-somethings.  The thing I find so funny about The Cure is that while Smith's appearance seems so dark, and some of the lyrics are a bit eerie and certainly not fun and games, the general sound of the music is still pretty light and easy to listen to.  But the message was different.  That message, more or less, was it's okay not to be the same as everyone else, but you also don't necessarily have to be a rebel in order to do that.
     Now, here's me: child of the '90s.  I was seven years old when Kurt Cobain died and was therefore just missed out on experiencing the Grunge era completely first hand.  When Kurt shot himself in 1993, I was probably watching Sesame Street or Barney.  But, sometime around middle school I started listening to Nirvana and man was I the cooooolest.  But let's think about this.  Was Kurt Cobain really "cool" in the way we think of cool?  With his shoulder-length, dirty blonde hair, scruffy beard, beat-up jeans and messy-looking sweaters bent over a guitar screeching lyrics, which if you can decipher, are pretty messed up sometimes, was he cool?  Aside from "Smells Like Teen Spirit," which, awkwardly enough was played at almost every middle-school dance and was almost never completed because everyone present got too "rowdy," Nirvana's songs aren't super-rebellious and they certainly, especially Cobain, don't embody that sort of "tough-guy" image that former rock musicians did.  Grunge rock, post-Grunge, and also Industrial rock are what I grew up listening to.  Well, that stuff and a fair mix of 'Nsync and Britney Spears, but whatever; people have multiple emotions, I have well-rounded musical tastes.  Don't judge.
     Anyways, I have finally arrived at my main point.  Around December I was extremely depressed.  But, I hadn't gone through a break-up, hadn't lost a loved one, or any other kind of event that usually makes a person sad.  I just was. I stayed in my room every night, drank a bottle of wine almost every night, slept almost constantly and mostly just didn't, or maybe couldn't, talk to anybody.  Even my mom, who I have always been able to talk to about everything.  I just didn't have the words.  Being in this mood and also juggling dealing with a worried mother is not a fun thing to do.  You're depressed, then you try to explain why, you become frustrated, because you're frustrated you can't get out of your bad mood and so on and on and on and on.  One day I just needed to purge my mind of whatever was on it.  I still didn't know, but I got a fine-tip Sharpie marker, some college-ruled paper and shut myself in my room.  I started writing and didn't finish until I had hand-written seven full single-spaced pages.  My hands hurt, I wasn't sure what I even said, but I felt a little bit better.
     Today I found those seven pages.  I don't know if what I wrote on that night back in December is any good, or makes any sense, but I'm also sure that I couldn't recreate it if I tried.  Now, just to remind you, as I stated earlier, I am in a fantastic mood and definitely don't feel like this now.  I just wanted to get it out there. I'm sure some people can relate.  So, with no further ado, here it is:

     I've had so many thoughts racing through my head since this afternoon that it's probably going to be pretty impossible to put them into any kind of logical order. Or remember all of them. I'm not sure why I ever put anything I think onto paper.  It doesn't usually make me feel better, I never look at it later and don't ever, ever, ever show it to anyone.  Half the time I just keep my feelings bottled up.  I don't have a hard time telling stories about what has happened to make me feel the way I do, if there is a reason.  But usually there isn't anything palpable or logically perceivable or identifiable that happened to make me feel the way I do.  Sometimes I just feel depressed. Like hitting a wall. Sometimes it creeps in gradually and I don't even notice it.  It's just there one day. No story, no explanation, or if there is one that I can possibly make literate or audible, it's not usually enough reason to spawn such depression.  The catalyst can be something minute: having plans cancelled, hearing someone I dated once and had (or still do have) feelings for is dating someone else, etc.  It doesn't matter.  You can eliminate those feelings or reason your way out of them in myriad ways.  So, per usual, I default to inaction: hide in my room, read other people's books, blogs, poems, song lyrics, etc. trying to find something I relate to.  Tonight I was perusing my friend's blog and was as blown away by his ability to use words to portray such deep thoughts in a way that is poetic in such a way that you're simultaneously rapt in awe at someones capacity to write and also at the events that inspire them.  I left Thailand because I was scared, alone, and miserable.  I came back, hoping to return to friends (and maybe a lover) that I foolishly expected to be right there waiting for me. But now, just about seven months later, I think I might actually be more lonely than I ever have been in my entire life. 
     But lonely just doesn't cut it. If a rational person were dealing with feeling lonely they would want to talk to their friends, family, whoever. But I'm sick of talking. The endless ramblings of "How are you?" the stupid attempts at explaining away my answer, etc.  But, "good, thanks," is all I say to everyone, not knowing if anyone actually cares how I'm doing or not.  Another reason is that we all live in the shadows of what is considered polite behavior.  Asking "How are you?" in this day and age doesn't actually mean anything more than a glance to acknowledge someone's presence does.  And, isn't that the easiest way to exist?  by just being polite?  If you honestly answer "I'm 100% miserable, my day sucked, I'm tired both physically and mentally, I'm petrified of my future, haunted by my past and feel like I'm asphyxiating in my present. Try that on for size," the person would either give you the usual "everything will be okay," kind of speech, or "I know how you feel," or if they're really nice, one of those "you're an amazing person, everyone loves you," kind of speeches. Or they'll just be baffled and go on their way. Even if one person can, on some level, understand someone else's feelings or relate in some way, is it possible for anyone to really, truly feel the same? I mean, doesn't everyone see, feel, hear, understand, and experience things in a different way?  How does that work anyways? Do people see the color blue the same way I do, never mind manage to feel lonely in a crowded room? Even when it's quiet I'm not capable of turning my brain off, and lately it hasn't been going in the best direction. 
    Twice in the last two or three days someone has mentioned suicide to me.  Honestly, I've thought about it before but decided a long time ago it wasn't for me. I always told myself (and others, if they pried enough), that I was too afraid to do anything to hurt myself. Or too selfish.  Given my self-depriving, all-giving, usually-makes-me-feel-happy kind of unselfishness that I've been experiencing lately, I don't think that's it. In fact, someone recently told me I should be more selfish.  Something along the lines of "you do you." I've been thinking about that. I don't usually want to. Or do I? Is that the issue at hand? I'm not sure I even know how to not think about what others may feel or think about their situation, an awkward or possibly hurtful third party comment, or something I did or said recently or possibly on some long-gone, random Tuesday afternoon that I remember but they don't. It's tough not to think about that, especially when making others feel better about themselves makes me feel better. So, therefore, even being selfish would still not make me feel better because what I'd be making up for in the meantime would be lost in a self-inflicted guilt-trip.  
     Guilt, that's it. That ever-present something that I never seem to be able to escape.  Maybe it's because I was technically born a Jew. Maybe it's because I've renounced my religion or any truly soul-felt religiosity as something unprovable and therefore non-existent and therefore not helpful. I've been curious for years about religion and different viewpoint about "God" or life or anything that maybe can or maybe will never be truly felt, seen or understood by anyone unable to, or unwilling to make the blind leap of faith involved in believing something like this. 
     But that's just it. I've been spending, at the very least, the last year or so of my life just waiting to be hit with some sort of religious revelation, some sort of sudden feeling of spirituality, enlightenment, understanding, peacefulness, or whatever you might expect to come from such an experience.  But those things don't just happen. 
     So, here I am, stuck waiting to be hit by the train, but too afraid, or stupid, or polite, or uncomfortable, or guilt-ridden to jump in its path.  Yes, that was a pretty good way to link taking a leap of faith and a reference to suicide all into one metaphor. At least I can do something right. 
     So, no fear, people. I'm not going to make a fuss and slit my writs or OD on pills or go through the hassle to actually hurt myself.  It's not even out of laziness, or fear of death, it's more a lack of motivation, which is an ironic problem for someone who is craving a change so badly that it's all they can think about.  But, it is fear that is holding me back. Fear of failing, being lonelier, more-so than I am now and having to turn back around, start over again, go through the miserably overwhelming sense of failure, confusion and disappointment in myself, from both my inner thoughts and the ones I assumed others thought about me. I'll never forget the expression of disappointment that one of my cousins expressed to me at a benign birthday party shortly after I got back from Thailand. It was so shocking, so rare to hear such brutal honesty from someone whom I was not that close with. But, at the same time, it was the closest thing to my own emotion I could sense. But how is living this way any way to live: trapped in boredom and loneliness but fearing change all at the same time? 
     The call to inaction is so strong right now that it's all I can do. Sure, my thoughts are racing, doing mental laps around my skull, doing jumping-jacks, whatever. It's never quiet. I can't be by myself without beating myself up. If I'm with someone else I just think about all the possible ways they could be cognitively beating me up, or how they could possibly knowingly, or un-knowingly devastate me in the future. Or, maybe sometimes I just don't want to talk. But then I do anyways because I don't want anyone to worry or feel bad for me, when in reality, all I think I really want is someone to care, not necessarily do anything, but just genuinely get me. Really and truly.  Or just give that silent sense of someone there, as inactive as my body may be, someone just to lie next to, feel close to and not have to constantly describe my feelings to in order for them to know which direction to turn their bullshit consolation speech in.  Just silence, accompaniment. No, not in a sexual way, maybe in a spiritual way.  After all, maybe really understanding someone's feelings is so difficult that maybe trying to understand each other is the only source of comfort in this simultaneously huge, tiny, amorous, welcoming, beautifully disgusting, inspiringly hurtful world. Maybe it's the closest thing that I'll ever get to experience in life that makes it feel worth living?  
     Or worth ending? After all, like I said, I couldn't be bothered to hurt myself. I feel more like Gregor Sampsa from Kafka's Metamorphosis. I'm more likely to die of starvation, immobility and the complete and utter lack of desire to do anything, talk to anyone, or even live. I think simply allowing yourself to just be, and implicitly be alone, or misunderstood, is just easier, or at least more likely to occur than actually doing anything to put the effort in to change that ever-forward-moving, ticking-time-bomb we call our lives, forward. That is the easier choice. Or at least what seems easier, and therefore what I'll probably end up doing. But if I happened to die trying that, maybe it wouldn't be too bad. It certainly wouldn't be...


      Okay, so I tried, but I can't read my own hand-writing for that last word.  I did have to edit what I wrote a little bit, either because I just couldn't actually figure out what I had written, or because it just made no sense.  It's so strange to read in retrospect.  I had never been that down in my entire life, haven't felt that way since, and have no intentions of feeling that shitty ever again.  But, let me repeat, THIS IS OLD. I AM NOT GOING TO KILL MYSELF (actually, I never intended to in the past, I was just down and being dramatic).  Either way, I just wanted to share that.  It's ironic how I found such a profoundly depressing document on such a good day.  
     Oh, well, as they say: life is one big rollercoaster.  I'm just waiting to see what the next course of hills and drops will bring me.