- #1
Eclair_de_XII
- 1,083
- 91
Even after I had moved, I still felt like I didn't really have a purpose in my life. I was just fooling myself into thinking that moving away from my previous living arrangement would enable me to figure out what it is that I want. In truth, when I moved away almost a year ago, all I did was distance myself from a toxic living environment, and a place where, as I had protested over again, I did not belong. I don't regret my decision in the slightest, and I still believe that it was the best decision I have ever made.
Life has never been better for me. My current job pays more than any job I've had ever had, I feel useful whenever I am doing work for my IT company. I've cleared a Python course and am due to receive my certification. I'm making a surplus of about a thousand American dollars per month, after I subtract my living expenses and rent payment.
Sometimes, I am pestered by my mother about matters that I really shouldn't have to deal with anymore. She used to use me as her emotional support dog. She'd just go on about my father, and how he'd treat her like trash and such. It's tiresome having to listen to someone who just keeps repeating themselves --- something I am sure that this board has much experience with, given my habit of consistently posting about my existential crisis and just as consistently ignoring any advice given, as I am doing right now.
Recently, my mother told me to get brain surgery in order to remove a tumor that according to her, is exactly the same as the one that rendered her an invalid over a year ago. She refused to listen to my doctor, who had insisted that mine is a benign growth. No, my mother insisted that my growth was exactly the same as hers, and that we were connected in that way; the thought is greatly unsettling beyond all belief. It's tiring having to feel like just an extension of my mother's emotions whenever she attempts to project her worries unto me, pretending that they are her own. It's dehumanizing. She simply exhausts me too much for me to want to call or text her. She's one of the reasons why I had moved away.
In any case, most of these nights, I am unable to sleep. I am kept awake by thoughts of what I'm even doing at this point. I just feel as though I am at a loss as to what would bring me joy and success in my life, and if those two things are even synonymous.
I had decided to pursue a coding certification with the belief that it would help me find higher-paying work. But I cannot feel that that goal is enough. I don't even have a vague idea of what sort of coding job would fit me --- if any such exist, in any case.
As for what would bring me joy, I had been, for months, trying to get back into my mathematics work. But it is just as droll and uninteresting as it was when I was doing it during my academic career. I had continued on regardless, insisting to myself that I wasn't really living up to my degree. I feel that at some level, I had not truly earned it. Then I insist to myself that it's just a piece of paper that I had been chasing for seven years, in the hopes that obtaining it would figuratively open doors for me. Telling myself this never really helps me feel better, in any case.
Sometime later, I remembered that one of the reasons I had enrolled in college was enable myself to find a job that paid well enough to allow me to move away. And now that I'm away, I just don't know what to do with myself. Nothing just seems interesting to me anymore. Everything's just background noise to me; the usual nonsense, in other words.
I had gotten into writing fan-fiction at one point. It was one of those activities that would genuinely bring me joy, on a day when I was active, alert, and not dissociated from my surroundings as I usually am. I cannot say that the same holds true now. When I had embarked on this project, I had committed to writing at least a page per day, in order to make sure that my project is moving along. It worked out fun enough, upon discovering that more than half of the most recent pages, written in exhaustion and pure apathy, had deviated far too much from my original outline for me to be able to revise and reuse. Now, I realize that I've lost too much interest in it, and in the source material for which I was writing it.
It chips away at my emotional energy quite a bit, having no one to talk to. Sometimes, I feel like I'm losing my mind. There have been days when I have not had to use my voice at all. It's extremely hard not to feel lonely. In those rare moments when I have motivation, energy, and enough sleep, I usually write in my journal, so as to feel like I am talking to somebody. I also browse the internet for mental disorders that I can sympathize with; I also search through TVTropes for the same reason. Recently, I broke my rice-cooker out of fatigue and my own carelessness. I genuinely felt bad, like I was losing a friend. I took this as a sign that I was more lonely than I had realized.
There are days when I daydream of going to college again. But then those daydreams are shattered by the reality that I simply abhor listening to other people talk, and by absence of purpose in life. In a way, I had come to associate my life's purpose with having a college major, a sad thing to be sure. During one of those daydreams, I had briefly mused about being a writing major, given how often my peers and professors, during my undergraduate career, had complimented my writings. Some suggested that I was in the wrong major, which I had taken offense to. Now I wonder if these suggestions were truly meant as insults. But then I dismiss the notion of my enrolling in a writing major as ludicrous; the thought came to me while I was writing fan-fiction, and I'd long given up on it anyway.
Anyway, this is a short summary of how I've been feeling as of late.
Life has never been better for me. My current job pays more than any job I've had ever had, I feel useful whenever I am doing work for my IT company. I've cleared a Python course and am due to receive my certification. I'm making a surplus of about a thousand American dollars per month, after I subtract my living expenses and rent payment.
Sometimes, I am pestered by my mother about matters that I really shouldn't have to deal with anymore. She used to use me as her emotional support dog. She'd just go on about my father, and how he'd treat her like trash and such. It's tiresome having to listen to someone who just keeps repeating themselves --- something I am sure that this board has much experience with, given my habit of consistently posting about my existential crisis and just as consistently ignoring any advice given, as I am doing right now.
Recently, my mother told me to get brain surgery in order to remove a tumor that according to her, is exactly the same as the one that rendered her an invalid over a year ago. She refused to listen to my doctor, who had insisted that mine is a benign growth. No, my mother insisted that my growth was exactly the same as hers, and that we were connected in that way; the thought is greatly unsettling beyond all belief. It's tiring having to feel like just an extension of my mother's emotions whenever she attempts to project her worries unto me, pretending that they are her own. It's dehumanizing. She simply exhausts me too much for me to want to call or text her. She's one of the reasons why I had moved away.
In any case, most of these nights, I am unable to sleep. I am kept awake by thoughts of what I'm even doing at this point. I just feel as though I am at a loss as to what would bring me joy and success in my life, and if those two things are even synonymous.
I had decided to pursue a coding certification with the belief that it would help me find higher-paying work. But I cannot feel that that goal is enough. I don't even have a vague idea of what sort of coding job would fit me --- if any such exist, in any case.
As for what would bring me joy, I had been, for months, trying to get back into my mathematics work. But it is just as droll and uninteresting as it was when I was doing it during my academic career. I had continued on regardless, insisting to myself that I wasn't really living up to my degree. I feel that at some level, I had not truly earned it. Then I insist to myself that it's just a piece of paper that I had been chasing for seven years, in the hopes that obtaining it would figuratively open doors for me. Telling myself this never really helps me feel better, in any case.
Sometime later, I remembered that one of the reasons I had enrolled in college was enable myself to find a job that paid well enough to allow me to move away. And now that I'm away, I just don't know what to do with myself. Nothing just seems interesting to me anymore. Everything's just background noise to me; the usual nonsense, in other words.
I had gotten into writing fan-fiction at one point. It was one of those activities that would genuinely bring me joy, on a day when I was active, alert, and not dissociated from my surroundings as I usually am. I cannot say that the same holds true now. When I had embarked on this project, I had committed to writing at least a page per day, in order to make sure that my project is moving along. It worked out fun enough, upon discovering that more than half of the most recent pages, written in exhaustion and pure apathy, had deviated far too much from my original outline for me to be able to revise and reuse. Now, I realize that I've lost too much interest in it, and in the source material for which I was writing it.
It chips away at my emotional energy quite a bit, having no one to talk to. Sometimes, I feel like I'm losing my mind. There have been days when I have not had to use my voice at all. It's extremely hard not to feel lonely. In those rare moments when I have motivation, energy, and enough sleep, I usually write in my journal, so as to feel like I am talking to somebody. I also browse the internet for mental disorders that I can sympathize with; I also search through TVTropes for the same reason. Recently, I broke my rice-cooker out of fatigue and my own carelessness. I genuinely felt bad, like I was losing a friend. I took this as a sign that I was more lonely than I had realized.
There are days when I daydream of going to college again. But then those daydreams are shattered by the reality that I simply abhor listening to other people talk, and by absence of purpose in life. In a way, I had come to associate my life's purpose with having a college major, a sad thing to be sure. During one of those daydreams, I had briefly mused about being a writing major, given how often my peers and professors, during my undergraduate career, had complimented my writings. Some suggested that I was in the wrong major, which I had taken offense to. Now I wonder if these suggestions were truly meant as insults. But then I dismiss the notion of my enrolling in a writing major as ludicrous; the thought came to me while I was writing fan-fiction, and I'd long given up on it anyway.
Anyway, this is a short summary of how I've been feeling as of late.