My journal reads like a record that skips and plays the same thing over and over and over (does that tell my age?). I'm beginning to believe that I've always been this way. Add the stress and the emotional turmoil on top of it, and the highs and lows were just, well, higher and lower. But in somewhat of a bubble here at home, I realize that I really am always just slightly depressed. Even with meds, I still cycle through the milder lows on a regular basis.
We closed on the refinancing loan last Friday. At the lawyer's office, there was an assistant that everyone was praising for her abilities and her cheerful attitude. That used to be me. Clients would tell me how much they appreciated me, and some of them wanted to hire me! So, I was a bit down upon leaving the office that afternoon, brooding the rest of the evening about much has changed. On Saturday, I went to have my nails done and to get a pedicure as well. It's been two months since I last went. Aahh, bliss. A spa pedicure with a reflexology foot massage and seaweed wrap. Oh, and, of course, pretty toenails. But while sitting in line with the other 11 women, I noticed that my legs were getting a lot of attention and not in a good way. My legs are blindingly white, having not seen the sun for over 20 years. They were the first place that my hives appeared, and that signaled the end of my days in the sun. Heat just makes them worse. It would seem a blessing in disguise since I have fairly good skin from staying out of the sun. But trust me, blinding white is not pretty, especially since I cannot shave my legs because of my hives. I do not understand Vietnamese, so I could only imagine that the lilting sing-song of their conversation went something like this: "What wrong with her? She have weird skin. Funny color. Eeww, hairy. Look terrible. Don't want to touch. Put on gloves. Hee hee." (Sorry, that is how they talk. No offense meant.) The bliss of the treatment was undermined by my humiliation. Plus, I wondered afterwards why I even bother to keep having my nails done. Who sees them but me? Huh. Afterwards, I finally made it to the mall to return those stupid shoes I've had for a month. I had one other errand I wanted to accomplish, and the two stores were at opposite ends of the mall. Walking through, I find that the mall hasn't changed much since the last time I was there many years ago. There are still no stores for old people, unless the mattress store is considered. Anyone over 40 is sitting on benches and watching the younger crowd. Probably in envy. There was still store after store specifically for teens and twenty-somethings. The clothing was cheap and cheaply made, minimally priced and sized to fit teeny bodies. Now, I had to try on no less than three pairs of pants on Friday before I could find a pair that would fit. This not-going-out-of-the-house situation has made me realize that I have put a few pounds onto an already less-than-svelte body. I was determined on Friday not to let it bother me, but at the mall, it was too painfully obvious that I was out of my league. The "big" league. Not the one I wanted to be called up to.
So once again, I find myself in a slump. I'm questioning everything about myself. I hate this uncertainty and the feeling of not being good enough in any way. I'm afraid to try to work for anyone because I doubt I could maintain any kind of schedule or handle any stress at all. I would love to work at the boutique where I was offered a job, but my consistently low moods won't go over very well in a store where I would have to be "up" all the time. And I haven't made it back to the office where I was employed to get the things I need to work at home. I have not started the Etsy shop I have planned and now am wondering if I'm going to be able to anyway. My ideas involve non-eco-friendly materials, and I've been doing a bit of thinking about that lately. I would have to change quite a lot of my designs if I go to all natural materials. And, I screwed up at the shoe store because they wouldn't let me return the shoes (I paid through Paypal so I could only exchange them), and I traded them in for a pair that I know I will never wear because I have nowhere to go. I have a closet full of awesome clothing that I'm not wearing because I can't fit into them and have no place to go. I'm not taking care of myself, inside or out, because who will notice? Certainly not my other half. Nor would he care. I'm not doing anything meaningful, nothing with a purpose, nothing that benefits anyone. What is the point of being me??
I hate feeling this way. I hate being the way I am. And I hate continuing to write about it. What used to seem like a good place to record my thoughts now just feels like a place for constant pity-parties. Wasn't the point of writing in a journal to feel better? To keep track of my progress? I'm not progressing, I'm stuck in a harmonic wave of oscillating moods that are like a record that skips and plays the same thing over and over and over...
(Image used is a funky necklace entitled "You Sound Like a Broken Record." It's made by WillowandIvy and available at the Etsy shop of the same name.)
