Once I seemed to feel fairly certain that my own perspective was accurate, as many young people do I guess. I suppose it was when I was married that I retained the habit of questioning my interpretations. I had little else to focus on during those years and spent so much time thinking, writing, talking, reading about my relationship, trying to make sense of it, and trying over and over to determine if something I was doing was responsible for the pain within it. My spouse, also, disagreed with my perspective on so many fundamental issues. Thus everything I thought and felt became something I questioned the validity of, and I still feel that way. I have an ongoing inability to understand if I can trust my analysis of life. Is my perspective valid? Accurate? Reasonable? Rational? I am constantly wavering; attached one minute or day to my interpretation and then in another, backtracking, uncertain, distrustful of and apologetic for it.
I don't know why I feel so much more angst than I once did. I did not used to describe myself as a depressed person. For many years I impressed upon my therapist that anxiety was my problem, not depression. Even when I started this blog 4 years ago I described myself as someone who found and felt easy joy in simple places despite the difficult of joy. It's so hard for me to feel that blossoming of joy now. Why? Have I simply "been through too much"? Become jaded, tired by my life experiences? Did I spend so many years so desperately ill that I didn't have time to dwell on these other facets of life? Is it biochemical? If so, a natural biochemical shift or the result of one of my medications?
It of course doesn't help that I never feel entirely well physically, which is a permanent, ongoing drain. And that I lost most of my 20s to illness which leads me in the peculiar place of being a 34 year old with a life that straddles the border of one my age and one much younger.
It is a tangle and a mess that I don't know how to sort out and am not sure I have the energy for anyway. I feel caught in a spider's web, turning around and pulling this limb and then that from sticky strands of thought. I spend a lot of time lying down wishing I had the will to be productive and wishing I understood what productive even looked like. And then I feel badly about myself for being this; not who I would've wanted to be. An ongoing strain to my parents, and certainly not what they would've wanted for me. Sad that despite the lie we are told as children, working hard doesn't mean we all get to have a good or easy life and that I may never have real rest.
But I'm so tired. I do just want a long stretch of ease and rest. Love and peace and simplicity and understanding.