I woke up feeling really depressed and anxious again. I think I woke up about 11.00am, but I didn’t get up until after noon. I am not entirely sure what I was doing in between; I think I must have just been lying there feeling awful. I just feel a mess really, super-anxious and depressed about my new job, which I feel I’ve already messed up. I’ve been having lots of anxiety dreams about it. I worry that I should have gone back for a second look at the library before estimating how long the initial work will take, as it was really a guess. I didn’t get a good enough look at it initially to tell. I don’t even know how many books are there. No one knows. I need to take a tape measure tomorrow to estimate (the librarian’s rule of thumb is an average of thirty-three books per metre of shelving).
My life just seems a mess. I wish I had something more interesting to blog about than the inside of my head, but I don’t. That goes double for my first novel (I do have more interesting ideas for subsequent novels, but I’m not sure I will be able to get them to work. Concentrate on the one that’s primarily my life history).
I had to rush out after lunch to get to the baker before it closed to buy sandwiches for when I go to work (it’s an Orthodox institution, so all food has to be rabbinically supervised, so I can’t bring my own sandwiches). I felt very agitated on the way there, a lot of angry and self-loathing thoughts, fantasies of harming myself etc. By the time I got home I was too exhausted to hurt myself, but also too exhausted to go for a run (I suppose I had a fairly brisk forty minute walk, albeit interrupted by five or ten minutes of shopping in the middle). I want to write more of my novel, but I’m struggling to channel my thoughts the way I want or to express emotions (it’s hard to write about emotions when you have difficulty understanding one’s own emotions). Matthue Roth (yes, I’m name-dropping, I used to have a somewhat famous internet friend) told me not to say my writing is “bilge” because it disrespects my history and my thoughts, but I don’t think my thoughts are worth respecting and I hate my history and wish it had never happened. I just hate myself so much and I hate my life so much too, albeit for different reasons (my self for being a bad person and a loser, my life for being too painful for me to bear, although if I was less of a loser maybe I would be able to bear it the way other people with similar issues seem to bear their lives).
I’m sorry that I didn’t really reply very well to the comments on the last post. I appreciate them, I’m just struggling to find words/energy/headspace for stuff at the moment. I’m still not sure how people can tell from my self-obsessed writing here that I care for others, but I’ll let that go.
So today was mostly a write-off, aside from going out shopping. I had one or two ideas for my novel, but I haven’t got the energy to write and I don’t know how those ideas will work out. I thought my novel would be meticulously planned, but increasingly I’m just winging it and that seems, surprisingly, the only way I can write.
I just hate myself so much today. I wish I had never been born because I can’t see what good I’m doing here. Today is just marking time, trying to keep going. I’m not even trying to write. I did about three minutes of Torah study and a similar length of time working on my novel, just jotting down some ideas so I don’t forget them. I’m going to watch TV in a bit, Star Trek Voyager and then tonight’s new Doctor Who episode (I hope it doesn’t bore me like last week’s did).