I really need to get my act together over here. I have fallen into a total funk. I am mopey, blah, emotionless, pathetic. I find myself listening to "Jack and Diane" on the radio — you know, "Life goes on, long after the thrill of living is gone" — and thinking how true, how true. I am all weary resignation around here. I need to slap myself across the face and snap out of it.
It all stems, as usual, from stress about work. My god, I am sick of going round and round over the same problem, year in and year out, and never getting any closer to a solution. How is it that I have spent two years going to career counselors and applying for jobs and "making contacts," and I am no closer to getting out of this job? How could that possibly be? My thoughts about the situation have become completely counterproductive. I can think only of what I don't want to do. I don't want to work here anymore; it is just too damned depressing. I don't want to work long hours or get up early or commute more than a few miles. I don't want to sell things. I don't want to be imprisoned in an office.
If we're being honest here, I really don't want to work at all. I'd like to take walks in the sunshine and drink cocktails on the porch. That's what comes to mind when I think about what I want to do.
But of course, I have this standard of living to maintain. And then I wonder whether I am just a coward, allowing this tidy life to hold me captive, and maybe I should just screw it all and move to [insert someplace cool here] and live some kind of Jack Kerouac-type adventure. Really LIVE life, you know? Lean forward into the next adventure. But then of course I am nowhere near ready to take that kind of leap, and maybe it's all just a mirage anyway. Maybe the idea that I could be happier living someplace else, or doing something else, is just bullshit. Maybe your problems and neuroses just follow you wherever you go. I mean, look at Jack Kerouac. He went batshit crazy and drank himself to death, so maybe the whole dharma bum lifestyle wasn't exactly the key to perfect happiness. He was living the true and authentic life. He wasn't imprisoned by his need for a slice of the middle class American dream. And he wasn't happy either.
I guess what I don't understand is why this all feels so hard. Why do things seem so scary? Why do I feel like a prisoner? Why is it so fucking hard to just be happy?