Coping Mechanism, Rants and Ramblings

The more you tell me not to rage, the more I want to actually rage.

People exhaust me. This probably doesn’t come as a surprise to anyone, but it’s important to get that out of the way, because it really sets the tone for this blog post.

Another important note to begin this post with: I am not a child. I am thirty-years-old.

You wouldn’t be able to tell on paper, of course. I’m unemployed. I’m in school. I live with my mother. I don’t/can’t/won’t drive. On paper, someone might guess I’m in my mid- to late-teens. That’s probably a fair assumption. It’s certainly an apt reflection of my current life situation.

It’s not as though I’m just sitting idly in my lament. I’m looking for a job. I’m learning to drive. I’m planning my transfer to University to get my bachelor’s degree, start my career, get my own place, and get on with my damn life. It’s just that jobs in San Diego are scarce (jobs I’m actually qualified for are scarcer) and I haven’t quite reached those goals, yet.

Not being quite there yet, however, does not change the fact that I am still thirty-years-old.

And as such, I am very, very tired of people treating me like I am still a teenager. Or a sociopath. If there’s a difference. Continue reading “The more you tell me not to rage, the more I want to actually rage.”

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Mental Health

I'm angry.

Something happened after church on Sunday night that made me incredibly angry. And, I don’t mean I was irritated or annoyed; I mean I was seething. I contemplated calling Matt and asking if I could crash on his couch so I could not have to sleep at home but could still get to class on Monday.

But, Matt and I are not quite that good of friends, so I stayed home and seethed. I ranted to Pup on the phone for a solid hour.

When we got off the phone, all I could do was think. TV annoyed me and my hand shook too much to write properly in my journal. I had only my mind to occupy me.

So, I thought about being angry. I thought about how angry I was at having to be beholden to another person, at having to–either consciously or subconsciously–bend and accept their rules for my behavior on some level (even if I resist, and I do resist, there is a part of me that bows much more often than I think this other person realizes). I thought about how angry it makes me that, at nearly thirty years old, I can’t just decide to do something and then do it, because there’s this other person who will totally freak out if things do not go according to the plan they’ve come to expect. I thought about how angry I am that someone else’s fears dictated how I lived my life.

Then I thought, who’s fault is this, really? Can I really be angry at this other person for doing exactly what I know they’re going to do?

I’m the one allowing this to happen. I’m the one who has accepted these limitations. I’m the one who’s put myself in this situation.

The only person I can be mad at is myself.

And I am furious with myself. I’m angry at myself for letting me stray so far from what I wanted, from what I need. I’m angry at myself for letting me become so dependent on others and for being so afraid of growing up that now I feel like I’ll never make it.

It needs to end.

This is my life, and I’m the only one who can live it.

And goddamn it, I’m going to.

I love you all.


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