Jenna's House of Idiosyncrasies Version 10.0 [Focus.]

I realized that I've stopped talking about the unpleasant feelings all together.

I've praised myself these many months for my ability to stay positive, stay on message, eyes on the prize. With friends, I talk about work a lot, and how hard it is right now — but if anything truly dark materializes, I discard it. I convince myself there is no use in succumbing; I know that to be successful in business and simply stay on my feet, I should act in a confident and charismatic way, and more importantly, believe my performance with all my heart.

I've become a much less interesting but much more content person. My writing has become passionless and dry, a collection of sly quips and shallow comedy, which go down easy. I guess I should be taking photographs or drawing, but instead use my time away from work to watch the same DVDs over and over, or head down to my bar to have the same meaningless, flirty conversations with the same people.

I'm building this new life for myself, one for a normal person, someone who doesn't have to be creating all the time because she doesn't wallow. She doesn't cling to this romantic notion that pain itself makes you stronger and smarter and more prolific than the next guy. Her pursuit of happiness is to create a gleaming surface, so bright and so lovely that one wouldn't even be tempted to damage it by piercing through and digging deeper.

I decided to leave adolescent concerns behind, and I elected to grow up. The young have time to analyze, dramatize, and indulge themselves. Adults, I have determined, survive.

How ironic, then, this analysis.

I write now, because I have discovered a chink in my armor. The things I'm not saying, the thoughts I'm not having, the catharsis that never happens, are, in the last couple of weeks, beginning to seep out from the edges in disturbing ways. Often, I'll suddenly be weeping for no reason. When I sleep I'm restless or I don't sleep at all (as I write this, I'm in my thirty-third consecutive hour of wakefulness). I rarely eat. Worst of all, I find I'm saying some irrational things, talking to fill in space — and when I hear myself (after the fact, mind you), I become increasingly concerned that I'm coming off as a complete crazy person.

Maybe that's just what I am.

I'm just sick of being damaged. I'm weary of being sad. There is nothing more to say on the subject that hasn't been said a million times before. I've done the dissection of everything that got me to where I am now. Having this knowledge didn't change anything; it led to revelations for sure, but not solutions. So I just wanted to try living outside of my head, focus on my presentation, stop disassembling everything into parts and just be. I thought I was really changing, when in fact, I am just repressing.

So what can I do? How do I fix myself? How do I stop being so angry at my mother? How do I stop worrying about my father? How do I deepen my relationships with my friends so they feel meaningful? How do I stop beating myself up over every mistake I've made in the past decade? Do I try to continue to create, even though I decided long ago that I'm nothing more than a hack talent? Do I attempt to produce creative works that I will potentially be unsatisfied with, starting a whole cycle of self-doubt and regret?

Does everyone go through this? So many people seem content to just move through their lives, and I used to tell myself those people weren't really living — now I feel that by taking things at face value, they are experiencing something more genuine than I will ever have. I am so envious of the ability to just exist, where one is, and be happy when things are going well. I'm honestly terrified that may be a feeling that I'll never have.