I'm all punched out and just so, so tired
Apr. 8th, 2008 11:59 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
katernaterI have a problem with anger. Specifically, articulating my anger. Whenever I feel angry or frustrated -- usually with good reason -- I don't trust it, or feel that my reaction is unnecessary. That I should be able to deal with all the ups and downs of my job and my life, and that anything less than absolute competence or confidence is a failure on my part. Failure to deal, or to be an adult about things. I'm constantly hitting walls with myself: yes, I'm upset; no, I shouldn't be. I should be able to deal with this; find a workable solution and get past the speed bump as quickly as possible. A lot of it comes from my innate nature to please; to not want to appear as anything resembling a disappointment. If I can handle it, I'm in control. I always want to be in control. Weakness is one of the dirtiest, most wicked words in the human lexicon. So I end up repressing and submerging. I couch the anger in productivity and hope that it'll go away. Sometimes it does. Most times it festers and, on some random occasion, it slips out -- most often directed at the people who aren't directly involved in the situation that precipitated it.
I don't feel entitled to be upset. When I do have a bad day, and when people notice, I'm reluctant to talk about it. My reasoning is as follows: I've already endured it once, what's the point in rehashing something that's already happened? People -- good people, wonderful people -- want me to talk about it, but there's a stopgap built into my internal wiring that prevents me from opening up to anything that isn't perfect, streamlined, or within my realm of control.
So it backs up inside of me, like a stuck pipe, and my brain starts lashing out against itself with all the negative thoughts it can muster: other people don't know what it's like to work this hard; other people don't have to face these kinds of challenges; other people can sit at home all day, or go on walks to clear their head, or go out with their friends and co-workers and function with their anger!baggage in tow. At the same time, I'm irrationally angry at people who bitch and moan about their lot in life, but who do nothing to better themselves or to fix the problem. It's so damn clear to me what needs to be done: if they'll just surrender control of their lives to me, I could make everything better. Go to the gym if you're displeased with how you look; find another job if you're sick of the one you have; go out and socialize if you're sick of being alone. No one's going to do it for you. I want to hold counsel over everyone else because, I think, some part of me is terrified about taking full control of my own life -- to take the initiative and be receptive to the feelings that I'm feeling.
I'm terrified of myself. I think that's what it comes down to. Failure and the fear of failure are constantly there, undercutting everything that I do and say. The worst thing to me, the pit-of-the-stomach, greasy spine fear that I carry around with me every day is the fear that I'll be a disappointment. That, somehow, all of the things that people think about me will prove to be untrue, and that I'll just slip back into the commonplace. The mundane. It's where the need to control comes from; the drive to excel. It's the thing that's put knots in my stomach and has woken me up in the middle of the night, every night, for the last four nights. If I'm not in control, I'm not worth anything. If I can't deal, I must be doing something wrong. Surrender -- admitting that I can't do something -- is a sin and a blight. I often say that, the older I get, the more I realize that I don't know. Truth is, the older I get, the more I realize how cowardly I can be.
I don't know where any of this is coming from. (See? There I go again. Resistance.)
Bed. Bed's got to be better than all this feeling.
(I'm disabling comments. For the aforementioned reasons and psychology, obviously.)
I don't feel entitled to be upset. When I do have a bad day, and when people notice, I'm reluctant to talk about it. My reasoning is as follows: I've already endured it once, what's the point in rehashing something that's already happened? People -- good people, wonderful people -- want me to talk about it, but there's a stopgap built into my internal wiring that prevents me from opening up to anything that isn't perfect, streamlined, or within my realm of control.
So it backs up inside of me, like a stuck pipe, and my brain starts lashing out against itself with all the negative thoughts it can muster: other people don't know what it's like to work this hard; other people don't have to face these kinds of challenges; other people can sit at home all day, or go on walks to clear their head, or go out with their friends and co-workers and function with their anger!baggage in tow. At the same time, I'm irrationally angry at people who bitch and moan about their lot in life, but who do nothing to better themselves or to fix the problem. It's so damn clear to me what needs to be done: if they'll just surrender control of their lives to me, I could make everything better. Go to the gym if you're displeased with how you look; find another job if you're sick of the one you have; go out and socialize if you're sick of being alone. No one's going to do it for you. I want to hold counsel over everyone else because, I think, some part of me is terrified about taking full control of my own life -- to take the initiative and be receptive to the feelings that I'm feeling.
I'm terrified of myself. I think that's what it comes down to. Failure and the fear of failure are constantly there, undercutting everything that I do and say. The worst thing to me, the pit-of-the-stomach, greasy spine fear that I carry around with me every day is the fear that I'll be a disappointment. That, somehow, all of the things that people think about me will prove to be untrue, and that I'll just slip back into the commonplace. The mundane. It's where the need to control comes from; the drive to excel. It's the thing that's put knots in my stomach and has woken me up in the middle of the night, every night, for the last four nights. If I'm not in control, I'm not worth anything. If I can't deal, I must be doing something wrong. Surrender -- admitting that I can't do something -- is a sin and a blight. I often say that, the older I get, the more I realize that I don't know. Truth is, the older I get, the more I realize how cowardly I can be.
I don't know where any of this is coming from. (See? There I go again. Resistance.)
Bed. Bed's got to be better than all this feeling.
(I'm disabling comments. For the aforementioned reasons and psychology, obviously.)
