Friday, 7 February 2014

writing self-therapy

Feeling out of sorts again. Work is not fulfilling, personal life feels lacking, though in what I cannot say. I know I am unhappy with the physical state of being. Doesn't help that I turn to comfort food (CARBS!) whenever these doldrums pass over. Not doing a particularly good job of self-restraint, which in turns just digs the hole deeper.

Actually, self-restraint is a big problem for me. In fact I am writing now to help stop me from going to the pub. Not that I would go drink myself into oblivion, but rather I find that I have a problem - I am not happy with my own company. Not sure if this is because I just don't like myself these days (a possibility), or whether I am wanting to feel connected. To the world. To other people. This is going to sound whiny - it's a circle into hell: don't feel connected to the world so I 'reach out', usually to the wrong people for the wrong reasons, which leads me to feel shitty and unworthy of connecting, so I draw back, don't feel connected... ad infinitum.

Writing helps, even if it is just gibberish and vaguely emotional crap like this. Perhaps it connects me to myself? I need that. Times like this I miss some of my old friendships. I haven't had many 'just pitch up unannounced with popcorn and sweats' friendships, or have someone just come over because they knew I was feeling crap and needed simple company (I am a very organised-visits person). I have had some though. Two maybe. And both are so far away now that the above is an impossibility.

So. Even though my rugby team is playing tonight, and I usually go to the pub to watch, tonight I won't since I don't trust myself. I will cook a pizza from a box and not leave the flat. I am not pathetic enough yet to knock back the contents of our libation cupboard though the amount of wine in this house is astounding. A good sign that a lot of it has been around for a long while without being opened. So. Me time. Hell.

Someone rescue me from myself. Please. Ugh.