But it's not you. It's me.
I stopped writing for comments a long time ago, because I realized that it was changing me and changing my writing. Also, I realized that I would never be one of those bloggers who garner a ridiculous number of comments on every post, no matter how mundane.
No, it's more a question of...
Just what the hell am I doing this for anyway?
What VALUE is there to what I am doing here?
If I were to look back in fifty years, would I feel gratified by what I have done here? Would it make me proud? Would it have benefitted me or the people I care about in any way, shape or form?
Perhaps this is just a symptom of the larger sense of apathy and malaise I am feeling right now.
We are jobless and frankly, life is no fun right now. It could be worse, because we can feed our kids and keep the electricity on, but I am growing disspirited nonetheless.
And I feel incredibly useless. I have no skills, other than my writing ability. I can't do anything to help. Oh sure, I could go get a job at Wal-Mart. And I will, if it comes to that.
But people...I want to do something that matters. Is it so wrong to aspire to greatness? Is it so wrong to want to feel as if I changed something, made some kind of impact, contributed to the greater good somehow?
I always thought I would do something like that. And I always thought my life would be different from the hardscrabble existence my parents edured. I thought that there was greatness in my future.
Well shit, didn't we all?
Ah, the optimism of youth. It doesn't allow logic or common sense to corrupt it. Just how did I expect to achieve greatness with no education, no training, no game plan?
I want to take that young, idealistic dimwit by the shoulders and shake her senseless.
I know nobody is going to hand me a book deal or a syndicated column. I know that people who achieve success as writers and journalists work hard to establish themselves. But it all seems so out of reach.
I can write. I know that. But I could spend a year of my life writing a book, only to have it languish unnoticed on every slush pile from here to Random House. It's a depressing thought.
I confess I feel beaten before I have even begun.
My husband, mister glass half full, assures me that it could happen the other way too. I could be catapulted to the top of the best seller's list and become an instant success.
"You're that good." he says. But he wears husband colored glasses.
So, I don't know if the apathy is the symptom or the disease. Regardless, I don't know how to treat it. I don't know what to do. I do know what not to do...and that's to let this consume me. But how to stop it.....?
Not by writing this kind of desultory drivel, that's for certain.
Go ahead. Tell me what a whiny, insufferable, self-pitying wretch I am. I deserve it.
I sure hope Wal-Mart is hiring.
Post Script: (More of an afterthought really)
I've decide that I have good reason to be a little down in the dumps. This year has been a particularly tough one.
A dear friend was viciously murdered in a shocking act of domestic violence. The investigation was badly mishandled, the evidence hopelessly compromised. Thus, her killer is free today. Her beautiful children are motherless. Then, two deaths within two weeks on Husband's side of the family. The bully stuff, which was BEYOND stressful. The CRCT thing, deciding what to do about that and how the hell to pay for it. And now, job loss and all that entails.
We've been terribly fortuante. Our sixteen years of marriage have been amazingly free of any major catastrophe, though of course, we've had bumps in the road like anybody else. So, I feel like I shouldn't complain too much about the hand we've been dealt.
And yet....I can't help thinking that it's a teensy bit unfair that all of this has been dumped on us in the span of just six months.
So I'm going to allow myself to wallow just a bit.
But not too long. Because I'm going to have to make a few decisions about my life.
I really hate that.