Last class, Mike asked how I was doing, and as a somewhat phatic response, I told him I was doing well.
He told me, with a chuckle, that if he didn’t know me any better and went only by my writings, he would imagine me to be like Joe Btfsplk, with a perpetual rain cloud above my head.
So I went home and read through the last couple pages of my entries, and found that they painted a somewhat lugubrious picture.
I’ve always contended that happiness is too hard to write. When I feel like expressing myself, it’s often because of a problem of some sort, internal or external, that I need to figure out. Writing has always been a way for me to get my thoughts in line, and off my chest. Not much of a peaceful, detached, care-free Taoist, am I?
Perhaps I’ll always lead a Cohen-esque life, where love, sex, philosophy, and depression are the dominant themes.
The funny thing is that my life has improved tremendously after therapy. I used to be a very dark person. After gaining the stability of a house and a career, along with separation from my mother, not much else has changed. I’ve come to realize that it’s not so much the things in my life that’s improved in the last few years (aside from the struggle with anxiety), as my attitude. To be honest, I have nothing to complain about.
That doesn’t change the fact that my entries have been somewhat depressing.
Perhaps I’m still not truly happy yet.
Or perhaps I’m still not looking at things the right way.