Fear and Loathing in my Living Room

I'm not sure why I got so mad. But I did. You know, that kind of mad that causes you to want to CRY. . . when the last thing you want to do is cry in front of the person who said what they said to cause you to react that way? F**ker. I hate you. I know "hate" is supposed to be this awful and strong word and I know that I don't really mean it, but when I'm hurt, I lose my words. I say it like a three year old: "I hay-choo."

I was really excited to tell my husband today that I am applying for a freelance writing job. It's small and it is not anything that would allow me to quit my mind-numbing, rash-inducing job, but it would be experience and I would make a little extra money doing something that I love. And while it's true that I wouldn't be allowed to express myself as. . .ahh. . .freely as I do here at Skirt!, it would still be something. It would allow me to say "Look! I'm a writer!" instead of "I'm a creepy weirdo blog-girl who sometimes stays up three nights in a row, hates her job and speaks to her dog as if he is the Oracle of Delphi." Just the thrill of thinking about applying for it made me happy. I didn't think about whether I would get it, not get it, get told to piss off. I was just feeling the thrill of the IDEA of it!

When I told him, I was really high off of the fact that the lady who owns our local bookstore was excited about my blog honor this week and excited about my application and thought that she had a book for me that might be of some value. I was super giddy at the prospect of applying for this small (and what even may turn out to be bogus) writing gig and burst forth with the information.

Now, I didn't expect a parade, but a smile would've been nice.

He looked at me with a rather bored expression and said "Hmm. That's good." And then he proceeded to tell me how I should be looking at other ways of making money as well. Now, I've been working on what he was discussing for a while, and I'm WORKING on it. It's not something that I can just learn to do overnight. I have studying and work to do. . .but his tone and manner . . . it was all so condescending and authoritative. His complete disregard for what I said just caused me to snap.

"Umm. . .I'm WORKING on that. O.K.? It's not something I can. . ."

"Don't get negative on me, I just. . ."

"I'm not the negative one. . .ASSHOLE. You're the one with the bad attitude." And I stomped away. Near tears. 

Do not cry. Do not cry. (Oops! Spillage!) DO NOT CRY DONOTCRYDONOTCRY. ARGH!

And the screwed up thing was that his complete and utter apathy about my application just. . .ruined it for me.

Why is it, that when people don't react how we want them to react, it changes OUR minds?

I have a friend who is working to start her own photography business. She takes the most, and I mean the most, stunning photographs of babies. She photographs moms and dads and teens too, but her work with babies never fails to leave me breathless. . .as if I'm looking at the first baby ever made. Anyway, she's building her website and asked some opinions about several of the baby photographs. One person in her circle simply did not respond to her email. It's a somewhat important person in her life, but it's not like, her husband or anything. But it IS someone whose opinion she wanted. A someone whose silence left her feeling pretty bad despite the fact that 50 other people delivered positive opinions or even constructive criticism.

Whether it was good or bad, it would've been nice to have her request met with something. My friend shook it off after a bit, with some humor, but it hurt. I know it hurt. I could see it in her face when we talked about it. Couldn't her friend have said SOMETHING? ANYTHING? Good. Bad. But the indifference. Ohhhh the pain of indifference. The silence of it just screams "YOU DON'T MATTER."

Why is it that someone else's apathy can ruin all of our fun?

I mean, really. HONESTLY. I am still so pissed right now. As mad as I am at him for his reaction, I'm FURIOUS at myself for letting it get to me. Hell, do I even deserve to be a writer if I can't deal with this? It's not like he said anything bad. It's just that what he said made it seem like he didn't care; didn't believe in me; didn't really want to hear what I was saying. "YOU DON'T MATTER."  

So here I sit. Hammering away on the one place where I do feel somewhat safe; away from prying eyes of the judgment of most people in my life. The application sits, half finished, on my hard drive. And I don't know that I will ever finish filling it out. How can I let one person's apathy bring me down so low? Where the f**k did I learn that?

It makes me wonder if, on some level, I'm looking for an excuse to fail. I mean, if I can say that it's his fault for not believing in me, then I never have to take responsibility for my failure. (Or at least my failure to try.)

It's something that picks at me. . . a little crow that comes and just picks out flesh of my heart, bit by bit until I have nothing left and turn into a raging, heartless, angry psycho. 

One of the reasons I stopped writing my blog way-back-when was someone, who is close to me, found out about it. . .read it. . .and then proceeded to call it "cute." 

"Oh! Yes! I saw your cute little blog." I was like "Betch! Do you even know me? Don't use that adjective to describe ANYTHING in my life. My dog, maybe. But my blog? Cute? Go to hell." I mean. . .I didn't say it OUT LOUD or anything, but it's how I felt. 

And now. . .how do I feel? How do I feel now that I am operating under the impression that my husband may find my efforts "less-than" somehow? How do I feel about his (perceived) reaction to my ambitions?

I feel afraid. I feel afraid that he is right.

I feel let down. I think I wanted his excitement to mirror mine, because if it did, then somehow, it would MEAN something. . .that I was on the right track; that I was doing something good.

I feel angry. I feel like I always support his dreams (He wanted property in Costa Rica. I supported him and POOF! We have property in Costa Rica. I didn't do anything to make that happen other than earn some money and cheer him on at every turn, but still. I supported him and support means a lot. Right?)

I feel like crying. Why? Because I am so utterly, uncomfortably, unhappy with certain aspects of my life.

I feel guilty. Because I know that no matter how much I despise my current situation,  there are people out there worse off than I. There are people who have no jobs to hate. . .or cause them to have hives. . .or cry. . .or have panic attacks before they walk in the door. 

I feel ashamed. And this is the one that puzzles me. I have no earthly idea why, but I feel ashamed. I feel ashamed and embarrassed to have even thought to begin to try to submit that application. I feel silly that I even thought to do it. Who am I to think that I could do that? And I feel, maybe, now that I think about it, his apathy is what triggered that message. . ."Who are you to think that you can. . .when there are so many people out there who should?"  It's funny. I feel like I've done something wrong or dirty and that it's now exposed for the world to see. And I really don't know why I feel that way. But it hurts. And it's stupid. I'm 36 years old (Am I?) and I feel like a child.  

 Now, all I want to do is escape. My husband. . .poor, long suffering man. . .is going to come home to find me either deep into a well-worn copy of something by Pearl S. Buck or Amy Tan (my "comfort food" of books) or zoned out in front of the television. . .not thinking. Just observing. Observing the work of other people; observing worlds that I do not know, nor will I ever see, but can still escape to because there are some people who can tell a good story.

And perhaps I'll get to the point, one day, someday soon, maybe, when someone can read something that I write and be taken out of where they are and see things through my eyes for a little while; maybe they can use me to escape the stress of a shitty day and be a little lighter in the heart for it.