I pretty much lied in the first three sentences of the following. It does, in fact, turn into a pretty standard “Woe is me” post in the end. This is what happens when you can’t sleep and it’s 2am. I think it turns around a bit towards the end though, so it’s not completely terrible.
I was going to write a post here about how every facet of my life is frustrating right now. Just take a look at all the categories I selected. However, I realized that it wasn’t super productive. My words here in my little corner of the internet have yet to truly have any profound effect on my life. I write odes to the one that got away, the person that, for some reason, I think will make me super happy and somehow complete my life. Either she hasn’t seen it or she refuses to acknowledge it, which ultimately ends up being okay in the long run. Why? Because I am a coward. She’ll be in Salt Lake this week, but I probably won’t reach out to her. But if she, for some reason, wanted to see me, I would probably find some excuse not to, even though my social calendar is about as empty as it can get at the moment. That’s how cowardly I am. If I really wanted to see her, I would have reached out to her when I was in New York recently. Alas…
I write about struggling through losing weight, putting the gym off another week then complaining about not seeing good enough results. I have this thought that being skinny again will somehow fix all of my problems, that it will suddenly make the ladies come knock down my door. I don’t know if this is necessarily true. It might make me happier, I suppose, but I think I have been truly miserable for too long to be happy again. I should probably go see a therapist or something. I haven’t been happy for a long time.
I don’t know why I feel like this, and why I can’t shake this funk I’ve been in. I can usually avoid feeling this way by distracting myself with other things. Lately, however, those distractions aren’t working. I can no longer pretend like I’m happy all the time. I distract myself with a job that I do not like, which in turn takes me away from the writing I wish I could hone, and for what? All the great goals I had at the beginning of the year of paying off debt by living at home haven’t truly started to come to fruition. I’m at about the same point I was nine months ago, and I am still 31 and living in my parents’ basement. It has to get better, doesn’t it?
I joke with friends and family that I need to find The Next Mrs. Eberhard (a post I wrote two years ago to the day) while I am fat and poor, thus ensuring that she doesn’t like me for my awesome body and overflowing bank account, and I still have plenty of time ultimately to find her. I just wish I was making some progress on either front. I guess I’ll just keep plugging away, trying my best to make an impact in both arenas in my life while trying to be happier. In the meantime, if anyone can recommend a decent and cheap therapist let me know. Seriously.
Until next time…
Robert Writes About... 