Right For Me in The Stuff That's Not Interesting But Is The Most Interesting Stuff I'll Write

I know I haven’t been writing that often, but it’s honestly because I’m depressed and I hate depressed writing. There’s a defeatist bleakness that permeates any writing that I do and it isn’t what I want to project out into the world.

There’s nothing really happening. I work all the time. I passed my classes. I hang out with the straight boys every week. I avoid my mother as much as possible, which is completely impossible so I get angry and irritated for no reason.

It also doesn’t help that I’m trying to prevent myself from all that spiraling introspection for which I’m known simply because when there’s no variety in life, there’s really nothing that can be gleaned from further thought. All I can do is try to survive these holidays, wait for school to start again and begin a plan.

Part of my mother’s stress stems from the fact that my grandfather/her father is cutting her out of his will and therefore evicting my whole family and countless others. Which means that everyone is faced with the prospect of being homeless. I just know that it would perhaps be for the best if I went back to SoCal.

Is this what your thirties are supposed to be? Finding yourself faced with a meaningless void. I’m too cynical to believe in anything anymore. I’m too sensitive to put myself out there without fear. And I’m too wounded to believe that love is out there waiting for me. What does that make my future? I could keep charging forward and doing what is right for me. It makes sense, I sacrificed some time for other people by coming home and I’m completely miserable. But there has to be some middle ground.

See where this is going? See why I don’t write during the holiday depression? You know how I combatted holiday depression in the past? I left home. Five years ago, I was in New Orleans. Three and four years ago, I was in Portland. Two years ago, I was in Los Angeles. And last year, I came back and visited, which was nice because I got to get out of town before I wanted to kill anyone.

Moral of the story: Don’t come home. EVER.