Fuck February. I hate this month. I hate it with the burning fire of a thousand suns. I’ve written before about how this whole month is complete shit, but every time I think I’m ready for February, it never ceases to impress me with the incredibly creative ways that it comes up with to just gut me.
I don’t know whether it’s a certain confluence of circumstances, or just another casual shitstorm, but February has my number. It may be some sort of subconscious self-fulfilling prophecy but it is what it is. And what it is is complete and utter shit.
I wish I could tell you a reason, or a set of reasons, so that I could sound less whiny, but I can’t. I’ve tried for the past few days to try to quantify it, and I just can’t. That’s what pisses me off. I need to know, I want to know, I have the unnatural desire to need to know why I feel the way that I do. I base my life on reason, and not knowing frustrates me to the umpteenth degree.
But right now, I have to remind myself to get out of bed in the morning. Not in the ‘haha’ joking kind of way, in the way that if I don’t remind myself, I would physically just lie there in this state of quasi-consciousness. And then I have to remind myself to eat, remind myself to put on clothes, to get out the door, to put one foot in front of the other.
And no one really notices because we all learn to put up a facsimile of what passes for normal. I give the same half-smiles, make some jokes, and make a witty barb every once in a while, and that makes it okay for everyone. But I know that food doesn’t taste the same, all the faces I meet blend together, and nothing seems well, fucking enjoyable any more. I don’t enjoy wallowing in my own misery, but it’s 4 am and I need to do something, so I do what keeps me sane, write.
And this malaise, this inescapable torpor, it’s like quicksand. The more I struggle to free myself from it, the further in I sink. So I either stay still and learn to cope with where I am, or a fight and thrash getting me in deeper.
You can guess which path I’m taking.