2.19 am. Got my Laptop in bed with me and I'm wide awake. As wide awake as you can be, if you're not feeling yourself. Now I like the ambivalence in that second part of that last sentence 'cause it sums everything up so perfectly: not in touch with myself, not having any self-perception, seemig like a stranger to myself, not really feeling my body except for this weird anxious fluttering in the general area of my diaphragm and the occasional pain.
So I'm not really like guilt with a guilty conscience, because I don't feel anything right now. But this is where the attack of the attacking things comes in: for the most part of my life, I've been shit on by the people around me. Quite badly, too; no neatness about it. When I look at my life, beyond the official version, anyway, it looks as messy as a frat house Sunday morning. Minus the party. Or maybe, not minus the party, but the party wasn't all that fun to begin with and you would have preferred not to go, at all. Nahmean?
Back to topic though: people have screwed me over. Badly. And I hold a grudge, a completely justified, appropriate grudge. I think it's my right to.
(2.41 am. I just went to the bathroom and stepped on my dog. Bad mommy.)
I believe in Karma. Or rather: I want to believe in Karma. That doing good things somehow pays off and that if you cause suffering, you end up hurting yourself, eventually. That there is some kind of numinous justice, no matter the jurisdiction. Not that anyone would consider me a very religious person, but for some years now, I find myself in a crisis of faith. Because what I want to believe and what life is showing me about itself are very, very different things: the former vs. a nameless terror that contradicts my aboriginal belief in the existence of humanity.
Controversely, I am holding a grudge while claiming to believe in Karma and wondering why good things haven't happened to me. Yes, there have been good things in my life. Like coming back to Vienna, finding my apartment. But these things didn't happen, I made them occur. The "bad things" that happened weren't the self-inflicted kind, though I do keep conveying a responsibility for them to myself. Because I am like guilt with a guilty conscience. I'm in therapy, but I have known for a long, long time what the problem is. Because if I weren't making myself accountable for the bad things that happened, I'd be very angry at a lot of people and life itself. Which I have been, in a way. But only for the past year or so. And anger, even if it's justified, ain't healthy. On the other hand, you do need to feel it at some point, just like the denial and the depression.
Basically, I consider myself a martyrred superhero. Because I know for a fact that certain issues can neither become resolved or acceptable and that being angry about it and admitting that this world is a shitty place and we're all better off just looking out for ourselves, I choose to ignore it and go about doing as much good as I can. Mostly, anyway.
Then I got tired of it and took a sick leave from work. And I guess, that's where I am now, at 3.08 am in the morning, glad I'm not feeling my conscience or anything else, for that matter.
(to be continued)
