Premeditated Misconduct

I am so burnt out.

I see it; I recognize it; I know it; I own it.
How could I not? It's the exact same behavior every single May, isn't it?... Dragging ass in classes, trying to work up any level of interest, not matter how fascinating I thought it all was to begin with; dragging ass at home-- the last few years it was my dorm room, but no matter; same idea-- loathing having to interact with real people (too much work) and living in a fantasy world through the interface of imagination, avoidance, and the computer screen.
Last year, I did the same damned thing (which is quite clear if you read my journal entries from a year ago-- like these two entries, or this, or this), only last year it was all fanfic-- I wrote "Quintessence of Dust", "More Sinned Against", and "Eclipse" in a less than two weeks; I called it my "hardcore program of absolute avoidance".

I have to write my American Religious History final. The final question is much, much easier than the midterm question was; it only has to be five pages. It only takes me four or five hours to struggle along, forcing and scraping and grinding, to get a five page paper out. I could do this the same way I chose to do my ill-fated Taoism paper; the morning it's due. But I shouldn't and I don't want to. *sigh*
I have to email Ted about said ill-fated Taoism paper, and figure out how to file an extension. *headDESK*
I have to get my integrative notebook at least started. God... *groans, head shaking*
I have to email Chester about getting my backpack back, since I left it in his car the other night. I really want my Brief History of the Human Race back; I was enjoying reading it.
I have to get a fucking job.

All I want, though, is to write fanfics, role-play (and role-play, and role-play, and role-play somemore... talk about avoiding reality! *laughs*), read the stack of books sitting around my room, and play with my ferret.
God, I'm pathetic. Really pathetic.

Oh, and even better. I still have another month of classes, unless I drop my J-term. *shakes head* Hebrew Short Story with Carolyn, three times a day, four days a week. @_@ WTF was I thinking...?
*DED*

-- Thomas Hobbes

...This is going to be a long and soul-searching bit of drabble. You've been warned.


I chose my title quote because, as some of you may know, I am plagued by despair. Whether this is a symptom of my chemical inbalance-caused depression, a result of my natural cynicism and anger, a healthy and normal reaction to this crazy, fucked-up world, a manifestation (along with apathy) of learned helplessness, none of the above or all of the above...I don't care.
(Although, for what it's worth, I'm voting on answer F) All of the above.)

[What's another night all alone / When you're spending every day on your own? / Here we go...]

I feel so lost so much of the time. Nothing's right, even when nothing's wrong. I don't have any energy, any inspiration, any drive or goal other than-- most of the time-- finding out what in the hell is wrong with me. I feel restless and lazy and angry and apathetic all at once. I want to climb the walls, but not have to leave my bed.

[I'm just a kid and life is a nightmare / I'm just a kid and I know that it's not fair /...and the world is havin' more fun than me]

I've gotten angry-- I suppose envious is a better word-- at others who seem to have goals and plans; people who at least sort of know what they want to do make me so damn mad. They don't inspire me; they infuriate me.
And yeah, I've gotten the It's perfectly natural for you to not know what you want to do... it might be that you don't figure it out until you're 25/30/42/60/dead. That would be fine if just wanted a plan or goal, but that's not how I feel; I feel like I'm wandering around missing some vital part of me, like an arm or my liver, but I don't know what's missing or how I can make the aching stop.
Another analogy: It's like when you see someone else do something you used to be an expert at, but now can't do...you can't grip a pencil to draw because of carpel tunnel, or speak out because it's a dream, or whatever...and all you can do is stand there, ripped apart with jealousy and longing and possessiveness, struggling to live vicariously through this other person and failing because they -aren't- you.

[I'll try to think about the last time / I had a good time / Everyone's got somewhere to go / And they're gonna leave me here on my own]

It doesn't sound logical. I know that. I'm not stupid.
But goddammit, I'm supposed to be doing something-- something important, something major. Something that would make a difference for the better in this shithole world for a lot of people.
I know that, too. I know it in my heart, in my bones and blood; I know it, and it is undeniable-- I know, because I have been trying to deny it for years.
There's a damned reason I am here, now, in this place, skilled in the areas I am, with the quirky charisma I seem to have...and I want to know what that reason is.

Hey, you'd be pissed too if you kept feeling like the butt of a really immature cosmic joke.
(Actually, I'm reminded of something like "Pin the Tail on the Donkey"-- I'm clutching the tail, blindfolded and dizzy, stumbling around the room, while god(s) laugh and occasionally (drunkenly) try to "help".)
The Universe should be glad I don't hold grudges.

[What the fuck is wrong with me? / Don't fit in... / How did this happen to me?]

What brought all this on? my faithful readers might be asking.
Short answer: the sermon this morning at church.
Longer answer: I'm been feeling even more out of whack lately... just nauseas with the feeling. And I've been thinking about it more and more, wondering where I'm actually going. It's been building. Then I went to church and the sermon was on daring to dream, doing the impossible, and how to handle it when a dream of the impossible takes over your life.

[We all know there's always something tearing you apart / It's always so much longer than you counted on / And it hits you so much harder then you thought / But you don't worry, you don't worry / Cause you've got soul]

*scowl, glare, middle finger at the heavens* ...fine! Fine. I'll play this game. I got nothing to lose but my mind anyway.

[Amen... Good night, amen...]

I will get my =fucking= M.Div., and I will get =fucking= ordained, and I will get a thrice-cursed congregation if I damned well have to.
Point me in the general vicinity and I'll do my best to give the paper ass his tail, ok?

Jess is playing ball with the universe, and she bloody well expects to win.

Ah, hai, so da. It doesn't quite follow the form perfectly but, ( here's my sestina for you. )

~"For as long as space endures
And for as long as living beings remain
Until then may I too abide
To dispel the misery of the world."

--The Way of the Bodhisattva - Shantideva - 8th century


___
...God, either Jenny's making waffles or I'm experiencing the olfactory symptoms of schizophrenia. I hope it's the former, for several reasons.

It's just that I feel like one of the Lost Boys.

Daysha's got Carl. Wendy's got Ryan. Jenny's got Owen.

My friends Jackie and Shawn got married out of high school. Heather and Akia got married. Crystal Brown got married. Angela and David are engaged.

Heather had a baby. Wendy wants a baby. Annie now suddenly spouted that she is starting to want to eventually reproduce. Tom too.

Tom has a worthwhile job and dreams for the future. He knows what he's doing. Wendy plans on going back to school. Jenny could do damn near anything she bloody well wants.

And I'm sitting on my ass, half-heartedly studying a dead language that I'll never use while dying my hair an inprobable, unrespectable, and decidedly unnatural color; my ability to plan for the future has a range of a few hours (ok, maybe a day or two, but certainly not years); I'm going to seminary because I felt like it but have no other real reason; I'm not working, not using any of my abilities or talents (and when I do I get little to no recognition for it), and I can't even meet new people. I can't imagine living my entire life with one person. I can't imagine living in a house, not an apartment. I laugh at the idea of me being responsible for anything other than a pet and myself...not because I can't handle it, but because I don't want to.

I don't want to grow up, and so...I'm not.
And I feel sad because everyone else is, and when I comment on it, they reply that they are glad I'm staying the way that I am...but it's selfish of them, because I remind them of who they used to be.

*sigh*
Maybe I'm reading too much into this.

So...

I was feeling reflective last night, talking with Tom about how I feel that, while my personality was great and helpful and useful at Northland, I don't feel that I'm the right kind of person to function in the Real World. I just feel...wrong...somehow, like an incorrectly-sized cog in a machine, grinding down into powder. My persona is too... well, too something (real, maybe)... to mesh well with common society, and I'm not interested in changing to suite the world; I don't feel that I should have to.

Tom kinda followed me, but I lost him again when I said that I thought maybe the problem lies in the fact that I have no "feminine mystery." He really didn't get that, so stumbled around for a while trying to explain.
I said, "You know that commercial that's been playing on the radio, like, every five minutes, about the 60 mile breast cancer run? It starts out with a guy saying that his wife is the most beautiful person in the world, right? ...I can't imagine anyone saying that about me (and not just because I doubt I'll ever get married). I'm not-- as the standards of the world would have it-- a beautiful person, especially once you get to know me. I'm not kind, gentle, or sensitive; I speak my mind, sometimes sarcastically, sometimes causticly; I cuss; I'm aggressive and confrontational; I snap and shout and rave and get so angry I cry and kick things. I nag and bitch, and my-oh-my, no one likes a nagging bitchy woman. I want things to be my way."
He still didn't get it.
So I tried the word "charming."
As in, "You know, women (and by this I mean "nice date-worthy girls" as opposed to " taken-em-home-and-screw-em sluts") are expected to be charming and gracious. It's an old-fashioned concept, but in some ways it's still in effect. Women are supposed to look nice and be nice and defer to others, care about when everyone else thinks and says, be reluctant to speak of themselves, and refuse to speak forcefully at all. And I just don't honor that."
Tom still doesn't get it, but I moved on.

And asked him what constituted a successful life.
Tom feels that if you find your vocation, what you are meant to do, and through that, if you manage to change even one other person's life for the better, you have lived successfully.
Fabulous.
I'm not sure what I am meant to be doing; by Tom's standard, my life is unsuccessful thus far.

And for the sake of curiosity, I'm throwing the question out to y'all:
What do you think constitutes a a successful life?
Because I realize that I myself have no idea how to define success.

I am currently enjoying the the feeling of my brain trying to forcefully escape through my eyes. I'm tired, sleepy, hungry, and I have two hours to go until my three hour long class.

I was scheduled to work this week forty hours-- yep, full time-- including working Thursday (which I requested off so that I had one guaranteed homework day), plus had a two-page paper to write and about four hundred pages of reading to do. I talked to my boss about Thursday, and all she was giving me was a "well, we'll have to work something out."
I worked from one until 8 yesterday, and that means I needed Tom to pick me up, as the bus doesn't run after 7. I also found out that Sheri left me a note asking if I could come in at 8:30 today instead of 10 like I was scheduled. Now, I already knew Tom was going to be late, but he ended up running later than he expected and didn't show up until ten after nine. So, I was sitting outside, freezing cold, thinking about all my homework, and knowing that I had to be back at work in twelve hours for roughly forty-five minutes.
I yelled at Tom in the car, and when we got home it was pretty quiet until I got out of the shower and threw myself on my couch and Tom tried to explain why he was late.
And I started fucking crying.
No, not frustrated crying, not I'm upset stuff, but real barking, gasping sobs. And I start in on Tom. About how the garbage needs to be taken out and he won't goddamm do it, and that he works so much less than me and he's only taking one more class that me (and yes, I know that one class means driving up to Ashland and everything that goes along with teaching), and how tired I am, and how I don't feel that it's fair that he sleeps in half-way through my work day and plays solitaire on the computer all night when I'm doing reading for class, and so on and so forth.

I don't think that got us anywhere.

First, he declared that he understood that "it's just the depression speaking," which would have pissed me off more if I hadn't been sobbing uncontrollably at that point. Second, he just kind of shrugged it off saying that he worked all during college, only ever failed one class, and that I just sat around and played then and that now he's decided to take it easy on himself and I've decided to go into overdrive. (This resulted in me shrieking at him that I don't want to have to push so hard, but I don't see any other way to make ends meet, and that I wanted a better job.)

I dunno, I'm still frustrated. I'm pretty sure this is a whopper of a tension headache, and as soon as I disengage myself from the internet I'm hunting down some water and pills.

God, this fuckin' sucks.

Tommorrow, I have off. Tomorrow, I am GETTING SHIT DONE.
Tomorrow, I am taking back the twenty-three library books I have out, hitting up Nicolet Ave for Jenny (I have a few things to send up with Tom, too... not sure it they are anything you want in particular, but I figure you can figure out something to do with 'em), maybe getting a badly needed haircut, doing all my reading for Thursday's class.


I feel terrible. Doesn't it ever stop?

Heartsick. Homesick.

I hate this. I almost think now that I should have stayed in the Cities, slept in, played solitaire, watched the same damn movies over and over, and sulked about not getting to go up to Ashland...instead of actually coming here.

It's not that I didn't have a good time. It's exactly the opposite.

I stand outside and listen to the wind in the maple leaves, feeling the cool air, admiring the orangey gold early evening light, and I feel violently ill at the idea of getting in the car and going back to the apartment. If I were a little kid, I'd kick and scream and flat-out refuse... I feel like someone's squeezing my throat, or like there's a wad of dry terry cloth crammed into my vocal chords.

I don't want to go.
I don't want to go.

I want to swim in the lake and roll around on the newly laid sod of the Mall, get a tan, go out drinking with Daysha.

I walked back from the Deep Water last night and wandered up to campus, reassuring myself that this is still my place, my territory, that it hasn't forgotten me yet. I canvassed the whole place, feeling like an old dog pissing in the corners to reaffirm his claim on something. God, it's so weird, disappointing to know that I will not be there this fall.

I don't know why I feel this way. Tom has already begun forgetting things about Ashland and Northland, already within a year. I feel like there will never be a time when I don't crave being here... never will I be able to leave without feeling like my heart is breaking.

This is my place. My family's here. Love is here. Mother Superior is here. This is where I learned who I was/am and how to love and lose and laugh and cry.

Angela's moving out of her house, and I wandered through it thinking about how much fun we had there-- her and me and Jenny-- with our Sunday dinners and anime and goofing off and sake and cool cakes.

I always want what's gone, what I can't have.

It makes me want to cry, but I don't want to freak other people out. That's probably a bad sign, but then, so is feeling claustrophobic about going "home" to my stuff and my couch and my job.

Damn.
Goddammit.

Plugging away at Joy's damned paper. Doing ok at it; I'm half-way there, though I can't think of anything else to write and I don't know if I can get those journal entries she wants in, too. The more I think about it the more I want to say, "To Hell with it", though. It really won't kill my gpa.

The lilacs are starting to bloom.

Y'know, I wish right now that I was living the cliche of, "...and she was surprised to see how few boxes her life fit into." That be real handy, in fact. I got way too much crap.

I wish I could write something deep and profound in this last-entry-for-a-long-while space, but I really can't think of anything. Except that I hate living in transition. God, I'm looking around my room and thinking, "Why can't we just go now? I don't want to waste time waiting for Tuesday." If I have to go, I wanna get it over with and get the ball rolling toward moving on. This lingering thing is not my cuppa.
(Ngn. I really want some tea now, and I can't have any. That pisses me off a lot.)

Righty-O.

( And something totally different... )

My room is a pit; there are books, clothes, cups, wrappers, and miscellaneous other things strewn haphazardly everywhere. It's Tuesday night of the week of graduation, and I haven't packed anything up since Wednesday of last week-- I haven't even picked up more boxes yet. I have an eight-to-ten page research paper due on Friday for my last class at Northland, and I have only conducted one and a half (if I can even count that half) out of the six or so interviews that I need in order to write it... And that's saying that even if I do the interviews I'll write the damned thing. I've done nothing except write fanfiction and sleep in the last week-- a hardcore program of absolute avoidance.

A walk to buy ice cream in the campus center took over 45 minutes-- I flopped on the sidewalk, watched the storm clouds, got the ice cream, wandered around campus until I got the the fire ring, I saw a deer and decided to see how close I could get before it ran... Some sewing that should have taken two hours was started at noon and is still unfinished. I really don't even want to be around other people-- and that's bad, 'cause I'll miss them a great deal in another week, and I know that they want to hang out with me while they can-- just hang out in the swirling maelstrom of my disaster area, communing with my computer.

It's Tuesday night of the week of graduation, and the lilacs aren't blooming yet. I'll probably have to wear a sweater to my graduation; it's been raining almost nonstop for three weeks, and it's not predicted to stop until after I've left. No sunbathing on what's left of the Mall for me. Too cold, too wet.

I'm bored and don't want to do anything. I skip class to sleep in until the afternoon and I'm still tired. If the seminary doesn't accept me, I have no long-term plans.

What in the hell am I doing?

...gone in the wink of a young girl's eye / Glory days / just seem to pass ya by...

Feeling a bit odd after Jenny left... melancholy, I guess. A little off-kilter. Still kinda wound up about leaving Northland-- although I'm sure all of you reading this are wishing I'd just freakin' graduate already and stop whining about being afraid. (I'm kidding. I don't think you guys are actually thinking that... or at least I hope not. ^_~)

I guess I'm a little tripped out because I realized-- making a connection with David Saetre's sermon for the UU's about three months ago-- that I'm afraid because, in a sense, I'm dying. Change is a small death... and we're not taught very well how to cope with the death of a way of living and understanding the world.

I need to make a list of crap I need to do in the next two weeks. (Loan exit interview, check up on cap and gown, reservations for stupid lunch thing, get boxes, start packing, wash items before they get packed, make sure at least unoffical transcripts get mailed to seminary, pay Jenny for bike and floppy drive, talk to Angela's David about meeting up with him in the Cities, talk to other David and misc other professors...)

Vomitorium.

I just looked at my calender and nearly threw up on it. That's not a good sign. Maybe I'll talk to David Saetre sooner.
___
God, make me brave for life: oh, braver than this!
Let me straighten after pain, as a tree straightens after the rain,
Shining and lovely again.
God, make me brave for life; much braver than this.
As the blown grass lifts, let me rise
From sorrow with quiet eyes,
Knowing Thy way is wise.
God, make me brave, life brings
Such blinding things.
Help me to keep my sight;
Help me to see aright
That out of dark comes light.

- Author Unknown
___

( And now for something completely different. )