the one with the cursing and the ridiculousness - don't worry, it'll be alright in the end. always has been so far.

This past week has been hard.

This post contains cursing. There is cursing. Lots of jumping around. Shall we even say hormone-fueled rage? We shall. #SorryNotSorry Also, as the title suggests, no worries, kay. This comes from a very personal space that I don't normally let out of my head or past a piece of paper. Today, though, it had to come out. Again, #SorryNotSorry

I've been battling headaches off and on for most of the days, and they get worse at night when I'm finally ready for sleep. I wake up and feel like junk. I take it slow and still feel like junk. I get some energy to do something, so I do, and then feel like junk even more.
Also, headaches permeating through all of it. So, yay that.

I'm patiently waiting for my reproductive system to, you know, do it's thing. And the time that's right before it, you know, does it's thing is normally very slow and tired...and the longer everything takes to actually happen, the longer that tired and bleh time lasts. So, here we are - yay that, as well.

And then I read this post by Elena.
And I'm just done. Super done. Because fuck that.
Let me back track. Elena is a lovely lady, I read her blog, I follow her on Instagram, and she seems just like a fantastic person.
But if she, a fantastic person, is saying "what is the point of doing all of this?" what right do I have for doing any of it - someone who is not anywhere near fantastic.

I don't have a thing to say that you cannot read anywhere else on the Internet. Lazy and messy and ridiculous and bed-day-taking and just...ridiculous. There is no reason to continue with it. Because what can I say that you don't already know, or can't find somewhere (anywhere) else.
The answer is nothing and nothing and, hey look, more nothing.

I can't get people in real life to like me, how am I supposed to convince anyone on the Internet that I'm kinda awesome (hint, I'm not awesome, so obviously I can't).
It's a waste, it really is.

I enjoy writing, but dammit, there's only so many ways to try and look like a put together adult when you aren't one. I'm excited because I've went like, what, three weeks with not having dishes in the sink when I go to bed at night? What is there to be excited about in that. It's stupid. It's just lazy to have to be excited about that - because it means I'm a shitty person for not just being able to do that naturally.

There is nothing that I can add to a discussion. Not in real life, not in fake Internet life. I haven't done anything, and I apparently can't do anything. And that's fucking depressing.
I can cook, but so can everyone else when they try. I can knit and crochet, but so can most people. I can't knit socks, though, because I get the jitters and my hands sweat too much, and that's all I want out of knitting is socks. Or a sweater, and we all know I won't ever finish a sweater.
A few years ago I bought a sweaters worth of yarn to crochet the Mister a hoodie. I got halfway up the back piece and never touched it again. Because I don't have the capacity to work on something like that for as long as it requires. It still blows my mind that I've made whole friggin' blankets.
I can write all day and night, but only because of the mental battle that goes on within my head every day. It's nothing worthwhile, and reading old things I wrote from a year ago in my journals just make me shake my head and wonder why in the hell I wasted the ink and the paper and the time on it.

And then I remembered something, and had to go find, that I had written who-knows-how-long-ago. I found it, and it's a paraphrase of something I found in an old email-note to myself from when I was 16 or 17. The paraphrase was this: "I'll probably be dead by 22 or something, anyway. And that's young, but that's all I can manage, I'm sure."
In the journaly bits after I wrote that, I noted that 17 year old me was sure of itself at one point that I wouldn't see 23. I was 23 at the time (and hey look, I'm 24 now) and I was happy with that. I called my younger self an asshole and that was it.
Except, hello younger self, you're kind of right. What's the point in being 24. Or even older. Eventually, maybe, I'll be older. Who knows. But why? What's the reason for that? Why continue on with this shit? Isn't it supposed to get better?

Oh wait, no, that's right. IT DOESN'T. It never will. And I will always be either battling myself, wasting my time, or being a fucking idiot. So why do I let this go on any more.

I had hoped, with writing here, that I would somehow manage to become a real adult. Turns out, I don't have that capacity. Turns out, I don't have the gumption. Or the motivation. Or whatever the hell it is that lets you, you know, accomplish things over a long period of time.
Hell, recently I noticed that I would be able to do all of these awesome things I've always wanted to do, and I could make the effort for it and it'd be fine. Slowly adding more things into the mix, cutting out things that made me feel like junk, and just, well, trying. A few weeks later, her we are, and I've made no progress. I did for a few days. And then that's it. Because I am not that kind of person. At all. Ever. Never will be, apparently, because I made it really fuckin' simple for myself. And I still couldn't keep up with it.

You know those "don't break the chain!" charts? Yeah, I don't give a shit about breaking or not breaking it. Sure, it'd be cool to have all those little bubbles colored in or whatever, but I don't care enough, apparently. If that's the only thing that is supposed to keep me accountable, I'm pretty damn good at rationalizing not doing something for myself, and then, duh, not doing whatever it was.

My head hurts. I'm tired. I can't manage to go to bed properly. I can't manage to get up properly. But I can do the dishes? Who gives a shit if the dishes are done if I'm not functioning for the rest of the damned day.

At least once a month I wonder if I would have been better off if I had died years ago. Because has the time that has passed been worth it? I'm not sure. Kinda thinkin' no.

And that's my life. That's my struggle.
So why in the hell do I try and write on the Internet suggesting that I have answers to problems or suggestions for solutions to anything, or ways to go about doing anything. Because, ha, obviously I don't.

I'm going to go crawl in bed now.
Don't email me in concern, don't message me saying "I hope you're feeling better soon!", don't whatever. I don't need it. I don't need love or hugs or any of that crap. It doesn't do anything. I have a lovely friend who I can tell all of this to, and do from time to time, and it still keeps happening, year after year, month after month. Said friend is very supportive, and has similar issues, and we just kind of commiserate and then move on to talking about video games.
There is no getting around it. You just hope it gets better. Maybe it will when I'm 30. Maybe when I'm 40. That's a long time to wait, though. In the meantime, apparently, the struggle will continue and I'll keep going around and around with it. Maybe at some point something with change, but I'm not too hopeful.

So on that note, a small hiatus. Okay, maybe a long hiatus. Maybe a medium sized one. I'm not sure. Everything may stay up, a bunch of things may come down. It could all change around and look different, or it may stay the same. Still not sure. If, for some ridiculous reason, you need to get ahold of me for something (no idea what that would be, but the option is there, I suppose), email is best. I'm not going to be on Facebook. I may be on Instagram (but probably not posting). Twitter is scheduled for a day out or so at this point, but I won't be checking in on it or anything.
Thanks for hangin' with me, and thanks for being cool people.

~Jess