I was planning...

This uplifting happy post about the wonders of springtime and all that is good in the world, but ummmm... I don't really feel like being all gushy and whatnot.

I don't feel as happy as I should which makes me feel guilty for not better appreciating everything that I have, as opposed to everything that I do not. I don't work that way. This blog should really be named "pessimistic tendencies" because my need to wander is really a product of eternal dissatisfaction with what I have/am/feel. I recall being accused of pessimism as a young child and feeling frustrated beyond belief because my only response (one of negation) was proof only of my inherent contrariness and negativity. I never could win.

I still can't. I have been being really productive of late, setting goals for myself, meeting them, setting limits for myself, meeting them. Why then does this inner turmoil not subside? Where is the carefree girl I never was?

I. is still happily chattering about, and yet every day I fear that I will ruin her. She has been crying when I drop her off in the morning, she just wants me to stay a little while longer, and I ultimately fail because of my need to meet all other external responsibilities. I called home, leaving the office after a work-filled day, and she answered, wailing because I wasn't there yet. Now, I am fully aware that this form of tyranny will go only as far as I let it, which is not very, but these bouts of melancholy that I have myself... could they be affecting her more than I realize? Maybe everything that I think I am doing right, I am really doing wrong.

I am apprised of my many shortcomings, my own narcissism, my propensity for histrionics, my fear of failure and my inherent weakness, oh yes, and my inability to master my genetic (M. insists, and I am sure he is right) inclination towards obsessive-compulsive behaviors. You know, it really is a wonder that one can function at all being so fucked up... life seems a big charade in which we fool one another about our true natures just long enough to embroil ourselves in other's lives, to create intertwining chords of dependency, that simultaneously bind us together and rip us apart.

And then, nothing makes sense anymore. But does it make sense any less? Probably not, but today the not knowing just hurts a little more than usual. And so does my throat. Damn allergies... what am I complaining about when my own fucking country is contaminating with radioactive warheads the future of entire civilizations? But I can't even make productive effort towards that either. It is amazing how quickly the sails can deflate when someone that you admire shoots you down. Among other things, I am having that experience with a professoressa whose contempt for me is only thinly veiled, as she implies that everything out of my mouth or within my brain is just American mèrde, tinged with godawful feminist rhetoric in a judgmental package. Ah well, what can one do but close one's mouth and mind and not let them in?