Don’t wanna do stuff, don’t wanna die either

Let’s forget for a moment that I’m not the healthiest person on the block.  Instead, we can pretend that this endless tug-o-war game I’m playing with myself is simply because I’m an exceedingly lazy, selfish person.

Not wanting to do anything hasn’t always been linked to being physically ill.  I was born with a few loose screws and faulty wiring.  This likely happened in-utero while my Mother was dealing with the stress of an internship and being married to a guy who she thought was the bees-knees but turned out to being a raging asshole.  We can’t forget my Dad is a direct descendent of Crazy.  On his side, we have bipolar depression, schizophrenia, major depression, a propensity for substance abuse, and the list goes on and on.  That’s only going back two generations.  The family tree looks more like a bucket of nuts.

Add a year of bathing in agent orange to that, plus the abuse he put my mother through while she was cooking me in her oven, and I’m the end result.

Rather than writing a sad, sappy story about how I was taught to hate myself by the very person who was supposed to encourage me, I’ll get straight to the point.  My desire to do nothing is part physical, but it’s mostly mental.

I’m too physically tired to deal with all that my illness requires of me as much as I’m just tired of dealing with it in general.  This makes it extra difficult to find my big girl pants each day and do what I need to do.  It’s sort of crucial at this juncture that I don’t flake out.

A quick shuffle to the left, and I’ll find myself in a hole in the ground.  To the right, it’s nothing but an uphill climb.  I can’t see the top of the hill from where I’m sitting.  As far as I know, it doesn’t have a peak.  I’ll have to keep climbing it for the rest of my life.  Straight ahead is my bed.  It looks very comfortable.  I think I’ll live there.  But wait, I can’t.  I have to climb the hill if I don’t want to sleep in the dirt.  I don’t have anything against dirt, per se, it’s just that dirt nap=death, and I’m not into that either.

I don’t want to climb and I don’t want to fall into the hole.  Falling into the hole would be easy but it’s also permanent.  While climbing the endless hill I have the option to sit down and rest, but I can’t rest for too long, or I’ll tumble backward and fall into the hole.

It’s tricky.

“Although you may not be able to avoid difficult situations, you can modify the extent to which you suffer by how you choose to respond to the situation.” ~His Holiness the Dalai Lama

That’s just the perspective I needed.  I choose to respond with wine.



8 thoughts on “Don’t wanna do stuff, don’t wanna die either

  1. Mate … I just had this conversation with a friend the other day! A decent friend … not one of those … ‘you need to find some perspective’ twats …

    I think for Me it had been 4 years of decline … and then the past 5 years of ‘I can’t move, I’m to fucking tired’.

    How I chose to respond … (i’d do wine but it makes me itchy arrghhh) … fuck it! Get me another fluffy blanket 😉

    Those twats that espouse laziness wouldn’t know the first thing about being sick and tired or being sick and tired of being sick and tired. They don’t know shit!

    You do your Do … and have a glass for Me please 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

  2. I agree with his Holiness! Pause, breathe, choose how you respond and move forward 😉 (and hooray for Buddhist principles! =) )

    And don’t be afraid to take a break when you need to! We can only pull up our big girl drawers so far and so many times before we start showing our ass!

    Liked by 1 person

    • I’m reading the Book of Joy. Conversations between Dalai Lama and archbishop Desmond Tutu on the week of the DL’s 80th bday. It’s wonderful and likely the only reason I haven’t lost it with my “special guest” yet. 😊

      Liked by 1 person

  3. I’ve had my big girl pants (and I am a BIG girl and I like Big Pants) round my ankles while I spray untouched sweetcorn into a bowl this week. Now they’re soaking in Oxy. My Grandma always blamed my Mum for me being both nuts and physically defective. No one told my my paternal great grandfather was sectioned more times than a colour wheel. Ahh, genetic inheritance. I’m lucky I’m not lazy – just incapable. If I were lazy, those big pants would not have made it to the Oxy, and I would still be on a toilet somewhere. Fun times.

    Liked by 1 person

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