I’m throwing the worst temper tantrum ever. Now before you start imagining me kicking and screaming, I need to clue you in on what that means. Worst refers to the fact that this is probably the most pathetic temper tantrum ever recorded because I’m far too lazy to engage in true hysterics. I almost feel guilty wasting such an awesome title on such a poor attempt. But here goes. My mantra: I just don’t want to. You can’t make me. That’s honestly all I’ve got. I’m throwing my adult temper tantrum in a very lethargic uninterested lifeless way. (So unlike me!) I wish I had the energy for the drama and theatrics of a true pouting screaming red faced I want my own way hissy fit. But alas…I’m too tired and old for all that even though I know that adult temper tantrums and pity parties are allowed and in fact are quite enjoyable.
The truth folks is that all I want to do is consume. I don’t want to create. I want nothing to do with creation or writing or emotions. I’m not sure if it’s burnout, my new anxiety meds (I’ve felt this way before while on meds so who knows? But what exactly has changed about me to make me feel this way while on meds, I have no idea) or maybe I’m just plain out of practice, tired and overwhelmed so that I want to escape into consumerism of pop culture rather than have an original (not possible, but I try) thought myself? None of the answers are clear.
All I do know is that I don’t want to write. I would rather do almost anything. It’s interesting because I’m supposed to feel optimistic, not depressed while on a medication that is technically for depression? Isn’t that right? I’m supposed to feel like conquering worlds while anxiety and depression have been systematically eliminated in a very murderous fashion within my mind. And yes, I do feel less anxious so there’s always that. But I don’t feel creative. I don’t find myself daydreaming as much about stories. My thoughts sometimes feel disjointed and non-sequential, as if concentrating were too hard to do properly.
So instead of writing, I read, or watch or listen. I think sometimes reading has the capacity to inspire me to write and other times it makes me feel so depressed about my own writing that I don’t want to even try. For example, I’m reading the Outlander series by Diana Gabaldon. She is prolific. She is…out of control. This woman’s imagination is so vast it depresses me to tears and makes my imagination seem small and limited. Mean. It makes mine seem mean. How can an imagination have a limit? The sky’s the limit, right? You would think so, but for some reason I think we put limits on our own imagination. I think for me it’s historical accuracy that drives me to drink. Each sentence in a story about the past has to be fact checked with actual history and this makes me tense up in fear each and every time. I can’t write through it. And this from a girl who loves to read historical fiction.
But if it’s a made up time and place, this brings with it a certain amount of freedom. However, all this being said, I still don’t want to write. I want to read. I want to devour Diana’s worlds within Outlander, Dragon Fly in Amber and now Voyager. I want to lose myself in the drama of someone else’s life. I want to watch movies and TV, I’ve lost myself in the stories of CSI: NY and recently over the weekend in Back to the Future, one of my favorites from the 80’s. Were the 80’s and late 70’s not the best time for movies?! And listening too. Music. My MP3 player blasting the same songs over and over again in the car until I ruin them for myself, letting them dictate my emotions. Because I don’t want to dictate my own emotions. i’ll let Led Zeppelin, Fleetwood Mac, Pink Floyd, Counting Crows, Rhianna’s Stay, and yes even Robin Thicke’s Blurred Lines tell me what I should be feeling. After Robin I’m feeling like a good girl who knows she wants it. But what do I want? It’s that kind of indecision that’s eating away at me.
It’s escapism at its best. And I remember being like this when I was on meds before. I remember ignoring everything and everyone to read books upon books. Not that I ever really stop reading, even when off meds, but for some reason reading seems to be a particular favorite of mine while on meds. But why suddenly are my goals and aspirations undone? Why do I feel uninspired and unfeeling? Have I leveled off as I always thought I did before while on meds? It’s hard to know or remember how you felt before but when you feel it again, you remember.
Or am I making it all up? Are my meds just an excuse to slack off? But why don’t I care anymore? Why am I suddenly so uninterested when before I was a writing maniac, a freaking word lunatic? I don’t know. I just feel lethargic. I want what’s easy. I don’t want to feel or translate my emotions onto the page. Being officially diagnosed with Endometriosis might have something to do with it too, although I had mentally been preparing myself for that outcome for almost 2 years. I know my body and as the doctor said, exactly what you thought was going on, was actually going on.
Talk about introspective and with no answers, none the less. Just more questions. How annoying. How philosophical. At the same time, I’m not going off meds any time soon. I’m actually quite enjoying not being as panicked by everyday situations. Sometimes I don’t even think about panicking at all, I just go about my business and that is a lovely feeling. But no matter what choice I make, there will be consequences. That’s what life is all about, making hard choices where no answer is truly the right answer. Life really is a freaking blast. So for me, for now, meds is the right answer and despite my desire to consume and not create, I’m going to try to fight through it, even if it feels like being boiled alive or maybe some kind of unusual middle ages torture. But you know…once you start it’s not nearly as hard as you thought it would be. And here I am…with a blog post under my belt when I started out with…I don’t want to in the laziest adult temper tantrum ever. I might just reuse this title someday for a true enraged, foot stomping, fist clenching, eyes bulging rant that will put adult temper tantrums on the map of “it” things to do. I can just hear someone saying…temper temper!
For your reading pleasure: Kids with tummy aches may grow to anxious adults (check please!)