Squishing About in My Brain

Archive for March 2012

Yes, I used the plural form of crisis. In some things, I am an overachiever.

So, lemme tell you about today.

Ate, napped twice (unintentionally), finished a library book so I could take it back.

And then, I went spiraling down the rabbit hole. Over nothing.

Over an assumption made by someone I know, about someone neither of us know, with absolutely nothing to do with me personally.

Nothing. Nada. Zilcho contento for me.

Had nothing to do with me in any way.

But over the next 45 minute period of time, my negative thoughts became a swirling typhoon that plummeted me into the depths of blackness, and left me contemplating my current life status.

And suddenly I wanted to weep. Copiously. And rent my clothes in public and wail as in mourning, for all I do not have and am not and may never have. For just being a single, 42-year-old, never-married woman who has no prospects at all, who hasn’t ever had a relationship that even got that serious and lasted long enough for marriage and was still sustainable in any way, and will probably never have such a thing at this point.

At the library, I found myself surrounded and inundated with romance novels disguised as “new fiction”, “new mysteries”, “new fantasy” and even “new sci fi”. This did not help at all.

So I decided to look up midlife crisis at the library. Know what I found? Almost all the books are written about men’s midlife crises, including one for women who are having to watch their man go through one.

Do not even get me started on that last one.

And then I went and looked at the few that were about women, and was repeatedly informed that midlife is 50.

Thus, I am not old enough to have a midlife crisis, so I must be mistaken.

Well, great. Guess any old anti-psychotic on the market should fix me right up then, right?

Thanks. Bastards.

But I thought I’d look at them anyway, so I randomly opened each and read a page (this is a great indicator and I do it before all book purchases or checkouts: crap writing can be quickly assessed before you bother to take a book home at all) and found that ALL of them were written for 50-something women who are financially independent and financially secure enough to pay for whatever vacations or classes or communes they need to make them feel fulfilled, without any lack or loss.

So now I am also too poor for a midlife crisis. Too young, too poor.

It isn’t just the lack of husband or wife. I just want someone who wants me, and wants just me, and wants a life together with me. And there is none of that on the horizon, and has not been any on the horizon in a long time.

It isn’t just my stifling and totally unexpected feeling-trapped-in living situation at the age of 42.

It isn’t just that I am creatively stifled and emotionally exhausted and tired of being a wage slave who can’t make a decent living in anything that I enjoy.

It isn’t just that I am surrounded every day by negative, bitchy people who do not know or understand me at all.

It isn’t just the lack of financial security, which I have had my entire adult life (you would think you would get used to it, it would become your status quo and you would be able to adjust to it, but one does not, believe you me.)

Even my mother admits the path of my life has not been normal or typical, although confirmation of that fact is no consolation. Helps not at all to be told that your adult life HAS been a difficult, and fucked up, one.

So, it isn’t just any one of those. It is all of them together, and probably more that I stifle so that my mind won’t melt, making me check myself into scary Broadlawns hospital, since I no longer have health insurance either. (And how I can suddenly, with less pay than at Christmas, make too much money to keep my Medicaid now, I have no idea.) 

But thank fucking god that it can’t be a midlife crisis.

 

 

P.S. To support my point, I Googled “midlife crisis-women”, which they suggested as a choice, and I found no relevant pics except THIS one:

Image

 

P.P.S. I wrote this entire blog, and then WordPress magically made it disappear before publishing. Nothing saved, poof into the webspace of Hell, so I got to do it allll over again. After I cried. And guess what? The first one was better.

THAT did not help my emotional stability either.

I am done with today.

 

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