These past few months have been some of the most difficult for me emotionally. As of yet, I do not have a "real job" and therefore, during the week, the few hours I do work doesn't necessarily occupy my time. On and off I delve into my novel-in-progress, but then remove myself (again because of the laziness) and find much of my days empty and even lonesome. I have jumped into exercising, having it occupy a few hours of my mornings, I read plenty and do other things from time to time. But, this feeling, unshakeable and persistent, continues and musters itself at my weakest moments. I know the reason of course: I am alone. For much of my life, being an only child, I was alone often. But recently, the feeling has become overpowering and hard to bear. Don't get me wrong, I smile every day, go places, do things and make sure that this shadowy haunting feeling does not consume me while laying in bed in a catatonic woeful state.
Without becoming melodramatic, let me explain my point. There are many people similar to me, seeking companionship in either friends, romantic lovers, coworkers, family, even strangers. In the NY Times the other day, I skimmed an article about people in today's era becoming too narcissistic. I thought to myself, "Why is this an article? Obviously people are more self-interested now." I've thought about this a lot for the past few years and believe that in Western Culture and specifically in the United States, people are more concerned with their own problems rather than anyone else's. These concerns fly past financial crises, medical conditions, severe living conditions, etc. and land straight into the pile of self-esteem issues, therapist visits and "my life is so awful" statements with heads plunged into tear stained pillows. Believe me, I am guilty of the tear stained pillow, but no one can deny that there are plenty more people feeling the need to "vent" about their parents refusal to send them to a certain school, their inability to get a BMW at age sixteen, their unachievable ideal weight. I want to make clear that I'm not talking about medical, legitimate depression, but a much less, more selfish, pitiful version (and I can say this because I am one of those people).
In our own misery, we rarely recall those starving across the planet, the lack of freedom in countries, government injustices, wrongly convicted people, those with terminal diseases, miscarriages, rapes, torture, and so much more. Then, when I look in the mirror, I am ashamed of myself. How can I feel so low about my life when there are people in the world suffering more than I could ever possibly understand? How can I shed tears for myself without shedding them for those more deserving? I am privileged for all that I have, as well as many other people, yet we constantly find aspects of ourselves and our lives "sub-par." I have come to the conclusion that humanity in general will never be satisfied. We will always want more, will always be searching for our "missing puzzle piece" (whatever that may be). I believe that in American culture "more" and "bigger" are the two main words of our vocabulary when it comes personal desires.
This is scattered, I know. But basically my point is that our constant desire to have more leads us with an empty feeling, a sensation that we are not complete because we have not yet attained "the house," "the job," "the weight," "the clothes," "the look," "the breasts," "the muscles," "the romance," "the best friends." We obsess over what we don't have instead of being grateful for all that we do have.
Realizing that I have fallen victim to this disgusting trait, I am ardent about changing. I must. There is no question about it. I think everyone should always work to improve themselves and in my case, this is one of my faults that is necessary for me to overcome in order to grow as a person. If being alone is the worst of my ills, then I should be thankful for the rest of my life and instead pay more attention to helping others in more need.
No comments:
Post a Comment