Saturday, February 05, 2011


It's February, and I've absolutely forgotten to write all about January. No matter. The reader should know, however, that following the events of the last post, I experienced one (or more) of the most unexplainable, deeply significant things that any woman could know. For me, anyway. Every hardship justified, right there. God screaming, lavishing love through random strangers, right there...followed by kindness after kindness, and the softest pillows at the end of the day. It was phenomenal, to say the very least.

But that was only a bit of January, and now it's been a bit of February. And I remain happy, especially after nights such as this one, for the most part. As a small exception, though, and if I were to be almost completely honest (and I feel that I can, with such a small following here) I am...miserable.

No jumping to conclusions allowed.

Misery is relative, especially for me, it seems. It's relative, and it's also frequent. To make things spicier, I don't have much of a reason at all to feel any misery. Not much, anyway. It could be the combination of many small things, as well as many big things beyond my control and not directly related to my life, as well as the fact that everything that does directly relate to my life is, and will remain, a stressor. And stress makes complicated things occur.

For the past week or two, though, I've felt like such a variety of things; misery being one. Desperation being another one of great magnitude, paired with the notion that I very well may be the lowest form of irresponsible human life, ever. My inability to unravel the mysteries of every-day, basic necessities is staggering; but I continue to be met with mercy. That, though, can make things worse, because I do not deserve mercy. Nevertheless, I get it. Loads of it.

I have to realize, though, that feeling like this is normal. Rather, I have to rationalize that feeling like this is normal, because I can't imagine that absolutely everybody is as afraid of going off the deep end as I am. Especially since that possibility has become more of a probable statistic, and it seems to be only a matter of time before...well. Sanity is fleeting. The more I try and hold on to it, the more it will elude me. Remember that one, Becca.

On the contrary, the beauty of my life is equally sufficient. I feel as if both joy and despair are woven through my DNA, and I have yet to understand under which circumstances either of those things act as alleles that are dominantly expressed in my phenotype, if you will. (What a terribly biological analysis; it's clear that I'm a bit off. Here, let me try again using a jargon that more closely resembles my actual field.) Simply put: a system under tension behaves differently than a system at rest. Take that as you will, and I'll take it in my way as well.

There are plenty of things to cry about, and there are plenty of things to laugh about. The time that I spend sobbing into steel pillows and wringing my hands over whether or not anxiety has engulfed me again is the time that I am wasting. Things will soon seem brighter. And if not soon, well...spring is coming, anyway.


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