It’s becoming increasingly clear to me that I am most comfortable and ironically “happiest” when I am miserable. It’s hard to be a part of something especially when you know it’s no ones fault that we all have to do what we need to do…just that what we need to do doesn’t necessarily coincide with what I want to do. So the end result of such things would always equate to me being alone even from the ones I love and the ones I care about.
Yet in all it’s depressing and self-pitiful “glory”. There is a certain sense of purpose and effort that stems from my melancholic, hateful angst. The kind that does not end in me stomping my foot repeatedly and storming off into the wind expecting someone to “save” me as I repeatedly try and push them away. But the kind that makes me do exactly what I need to do the best way I know how to in the best condition I can be in.
It’s not to say that I work best under pressure, no…that’s far from it. I work best when some part of me feels that the world has treated me most unfairly, that the anger with myself far exceed my pissed off sense of self worth to the world. When everything seems bleak and hopeless to my own life…that’s when I work at my best. Without anything left to lose, without a thought or care for anything that will happen next, somehow that brings everything together for me like a puzzle that fits perfectly.
Yet should I spend the rest of my life torturing myself to be good at what I do? I may be a masochist in that aspect, but I don’t think I’m that stupid. To which followed a conversation with Mel.
“You deserve to be happy. I hate to see you always miserable.”
“It just feels uncomfortable being happy. I don’t deserve to be anything other than miserable.”
“Then you deserve to be partially happy”
“That I know I can be as long as you’re around.”
See…not so stupid after all.