Being sad would be much easier if I weren't intelligent. Intelligence fucks up sadness with other layers, mostly (for me) of guilt and self-loathing. But if I were more stupid, less self aware then I wouldn't have any of the guilt or self-loathing; so maybe easier isn't the right word. Pure would be better. If I were stupid I could be purely, plainly sad. But as it turns out, I cannot be sad without being followed by the guilt-ridden fact that some people are worse off than me. It's nearly impossible for me to not counter any sadness I feel with an immediate reminder of other situations. Dropped my keys on my foot? At least I'm getting an education. Textbook got lost in the mail? At least I've never been raped. Got pulled over for crying so hard I swerved between lanes? At least my mom is awesome. Got fired? At least I have plenty of clean clothes and shoes. Best friends out of the country for a few months? At least I don't have credit card debt. Fainted and got a black eye? At least I'm not a drug addict. A child says I'm ugly? At least I know how to read. Was in love with a boyfriend who didn't love me back and subsequently moved 1,000+ miles away seemingly without warning or any emotion? At least I'm not starving to death.
All of those things have happened to me, nonstop, since the very first day of 2009. They've all been bad, ranging from frustration to nearly crippling despair but its pretty hard to nurse these ranges of terrible along with the sense that they're not
that terrible.
It's not hard to hate something you don't understand, and I will be the first to admit that I do not understand myself. I'm not a complete mystery; there are certain things that I do know and I actually like some of them, but there's enough dark matter to scare me into hating myself. It's the easy way out. But with all of that unhappiness and loneliness and guilt there's only so much I can handle at any given time.
My life will get worse than this. That's easy for me to imagine. It will get better than this, too, though that's harder for me to see. I've cried a lot. But I have to get through it, and by myself, no matter how badly I want to drag him into with me. What other choice do I have? It's just another shitty turn my life has suddenly taken and I just have to deal with it. But this is the kind of situation feminists point to. It will make me sadder. It will give me more writing material. And it will be one more item to take off the "At least" list to add to my guilt.
