My Definition of Hell

You want to know what hell is? Hell is being so attuned to the people around you that you can tell exactly how they’re reacting to you at every moment, but being completely incapable of doing anything to change it. 

I’ve expended so much energy over the years trying to behave in a ways that will make me pleasant to be around, and a good friend. 

For even years at a time I’ll do a pretty good job, and I’ll have friends and I’ll have to keep reminding myself to keep up the friendship. But eventually one of two things will happen: things will slack off to nothing and it will be up to me to get things going again, or I’ll fuck up somehow and the person will decide she no nolger wants my company. Then it will be up to be to make it up. 

There’re all these movels and movies and memes about the power of female friendship. I look at them and I get it, but I also feel like–wow. That is not my life.

But really friendship is only part of the picture. Professional life is a whole other thing. I’ve had jobs where my prevailing feeling, underlying every interaction, is something’s wrong here. This doesn’t feel right. And this is what I think I’m feeling: I think I’m feeling people’s discomfort with me. Whether because of how I look or how I talk or how I smile or don’t smile. Or I’m feeling people simply disliking me. 

Please don’t tell me that I can’t feel people disliking me. Because I’m just going to go ahead and put some trust in my own perceptions over several decades. All this time I’ve been trusting everyone else when they tell me I’m just imagining it, or I’m projecting my own discomfort. Beause you know what? Maybe it’s not actually paranoia when they really are out to get you. 

I’m telling you truly right now: I weird people out. And to not weird people out is simply beyond my ken. And you know what else? Maybe I’m sick of trying.

You Can’t Tell Anyone the Truth

That life is so hard you think you’ll die from how much it hurts to just live through a day and get your kids to school and not be a complete piece of shit all the time–just a partial piece of shit.That you love your kids so fucking much, and you know that you’re failing them every day.

That long weekends are hell because you all have to be together as a family for an extra day. And the Saturday night after Thanksgiving you think: well, only tomorrow left, and you just have to survive that.

That since having kids, your week has flip-flopped and Sunday is the new Friday, and Friday is the new Sunday: full of dread and anticipation. And Saturday is Monday: just the longest slog. And Monday is Saturday: one big sigh of relief.

Do people really live like they do in ads and on Facebook and in casual social encounters? I think maybe they do. I think we must be freaks. If we’re not, and this is how people really live, lots of us…I don’t even know what that means.