Still stuck on my BAP. My presentation’s tomorrow. I’m nearly done, really, but I can’t bring myself to finish the last four slides. What I really want to do is sleep. Or, barring that, cry. I have no idea why, but I really just feel like crying right now. And maybe it’s because I’m suffering from the mandatory hormonal imbalance that is part of a fertile young woman’s cycle, but a part of me doubts that–I can’t hold up my biology as an excuse. Something else is wrong.
Or maybe it’s been wrong for a very long time.
I’ve a problem with self-governance, to be honest. A girl of impulses and emotions, I tend to act on how I feel, and that doesn’t always turn out very well. I’m reactive, versus proactive, meaning my responses are more often than not motivated by the actions of others, rather than any form of self-discipline and self-control: things that, at twenty-one, I should have. Though I am well aware of “appropriate reactions” and “appropriate behavior,” I’m not always able to regulate appropriately. My first line of defense has been to fake it for as long as I can, until I can remove myself from the situation where fakery is necessary and simply let the ball drop…but that merely delays the inevitable meltdown instead of defusing the bomb entirely.
This results in a dichotomy–I can look bubbly, a bit childish, but certainly professionally reliable at work, but at home I’m a mercurial mess of snapping and growling and screaming and sullen silence. At work I’m an eager beaver. At home I’m a tantrum-throwing brat.
This is no way to live. And, frankly, it’s not as easy keeping both “personalities” separate anymore. Some of my angrier, more selfish home persona has begun to leak into my work life–I snap at my mum on the phone, or else start venting on social media during lunch break about how irrationally angry I feel. My workmates have noticed. Not two minutes ago one of my closer work friends delivered an extensive lecture via FB chat on why I wasn’t treating my mum with appropriate respect. And she’s right, I’m not. And I know how to stop. And I know why I should stop.
But I can’t stop.
It’s like, this is a life I can’t escape. This angry, messed-up, confused life where I’m constantly tired, constantly fighting for a semblance of emotional control, constantly afraid of making one more mistake to add to the messes I already have to fix (such as my in-shambles family relationships; I can’t even feign an interest in the lives of the people I love anymore. I sort of just want them to go away so I can sleep.). I live in fear of making one more person irritated with me, because just one disapproval will send me over the edge. And I also live in fear of that disapproval being soon, because when you’re raging and snapping and angry as I am, don’t you deserve to have your life ruined a little?
(I’m looking at you, God. I feel like you’re dangling a sword of Damocles over my head.)
On paper I love everything I’m doing. I love my job. I love my band. I love the life I’m living so far. Except I don’t. Except I don’t know if it means anything, at this point, and everything I feel is tinged, poisoned by a sliver of white-hot rage with no apparent direction. I’m just angry. I’m just unhappy. I’m just upset and tired and slowly, painfully slowly, spiraling out of control, fragment by tiny fragment. It feels like such an ungrateful, entitled thing to be, and on some level I know it’s wrong (so very, very wrong), but I can’t hold it back anymore.
Sleep doesn’t help. Food makes me sick unless I’m hungry, in which case I eat and eat. And my relationship with God feels…well it’s my only constant but I feel like a fake, because it doesn’t show. I don’t look any different from my non-Christian workmates. In fact, I look worse, and that makes me feel more upset, because aren’t I supposed to be better than this? More mature?
(Oh, hello Pride. I see you’ve decided to join the party.)
Mostly, I’m just tired. I want to sleep. I want to tell my work to burn and curl up into a ball and pretend like tomorrow I’ll wake up with a life that is essentially the same but feels different. That tomorrow I’ll be happier, that I won’t be mad at everything and everyone, that my first instinct won’t be to be nasty and arrogant, and my second instinct won’t be to cower in fear. But I don’t see a way out. I know there must be one–know with an utmost certainty that it must be God–but I can’t see the forest through the trees.
I need help. Only what kind?
I’m so tired.