, , , , , , , ,




I had a little trouble last night.  Cooper and I went out to one of his friend’s houses for a birthday party and I did really well for about three hours and then I had just had enough.  It’s not that I don’t like his friends; it’s just that I don’t seem to care enough to make connections with them.  Or maybe we’re just not similar enough that there can be a connection to make there.  Or maybe I’m just awkward and strange and whatever, and can’t seem to make connections with anyone my age except for Cooper.  I can hardly get along with Stella and Gabrielle anymore.  I don’t know what’s going on really, but it all comes down to my feeling stupid, which I know is not good.

Well, maybe that’s not the only cause, but I know it’s one of them.  I talk to these peers of mine, and they talk about electronics and movies and music and sports and all these things that I don’t know anything about.  And then I sit there and try as hard as I can to not let on that I have no idea what they’re talking about.  And the other part of it is that I really just don’t care what they have to say.  Maybe it’s because I don’t know what they’re talking about, or maybe it’s because I don’t feel any connection to them, and then again, maybe it’s because I’m so busy trying to hide myself from them that I get tired and just would rather not be around them to begin with.

The problem is probably all of the above, really.  I just don’t know what to do about it.  I don’t enjoy spending time with them.  I feel anxious and awkward as hell around them.  I dread going out with them.  And Cooper hates it.  He’s fed up with me and I can’t go on like this, but I don’t know how to change.  And so is the story of my life.

I do wonder whether I’ll ever do anything with my journals someday.  I don’t even know why I keep them sometimes.  I’m such a freak I don’t know why anyone would be interested in reading them.  I bet I’m the only almost 30-year old who feels the way I do; who is so uninterested in so many things; who is so behind where she ought to be.  I have these beautiful moments of inspiration and clarity, but they’re hardly worth it because they’re so incandescent and yet they hardly mean anything at all.  If they can’t keep me happy except in such passing few and far moments in between, what good are they at all?

My peers are all so happy.  They’re all so content.  I know that’s not true at all, but that’s what it seems compared to my life.

The funny thing is, I really thought that when I passed the bar and started making a somewhat decent salary and could start repaying my school loans, that I would start feeling more comfortable around people.  At least then I could say that I’m a lawyer and seem big and important.  But I’m afraid of saying I’m a lawyer because I’m afraid somebody will ask me a legal question to which I should know the answer, but do not.  I could be spending this time that I am spending writing or reading through my outlines, studying, or something of the sort.  But here I sit, writing about how stupid I am.  Writing about how dumb I feel, instead of doing anything about it.

Well, that’s not entirely true.  I started reading US History for Dummies the other day.  How stupid I must be, to have to read a book like that at age 30!  But then again, who do you think those books were written for?  They obviously do well; they’ve been around for a while.  I don’t know.  I just feel like I should be smarter than I am by now—at life, at my job, at my profession, at socializing, at making money.  I just feel like I should be so much further ahead.  But I’m simply not, and I can work towards moving ahead, but I’m not certain I’ll ever be able to catch up.

I don’t know.  People who struggle with challenges and open up about that to other people is what I find so interesting.  I think people who just present their happy side all the time and never have any complaints, never talk about any of their struggles, never have a bad day…they’re so f’ing annoying.  And boring!  I just can’t stand it.  Honestly, it’s no good my friend.  I honestly can’t stand most people.  But then again I hardly know any people in comparison with other people my age who have gobs and gobs of people that they know and network with.  It’s so embarrassing that the only people I have to hang out with in Columbus are my family.  And that is said with the caveat that I absolutely love my family and would rather have them around to spend time with and no friends than a million friends and no family.  But I just can’t believe I have no friends.  I just can’t believe that outside of my family, there is nobody like me—nobody that likes the same things I do, nobody that struggles with the same things I do.

I can’t believe that there is nobody like me.  It’s depressing in a way.  It’s depressing to not have any friends.  It’s depressing to believe that I am so different than everyone else that there couldn’t be anyone who would even really want to be my friend.  It’s depressing that I honestly believe that everyone my age already has their friends, and doesn’t need any more, especially me, to be one of them.

I have all these false beliefs in my head – I know I do.  I have so much going for me, but I compare myself to other people and then I don’t seem to have as much.  Except—I have everything I need, so why do I care if other people seem to have more?  I know they don’t, or if they do, they won’t always.  Sometimes they will have more, sometimes I will, sometimes I won’t be able to see this, but I know it is true.  How is it that I am so ahead with knowledge about truth, and so far behind on the rest?  How is it that my knowledge about truth seems so inconsequential in comparison to “the rest”, when I know from the bottom of my heart that what is true is far more important?

It’s because I must live among these people that don’t live in the same place as I do.  I’m on a different wavelength and I think about different things.  I am different, and I have a hard time fitting in.  It is lonely to be different, but is “fitting in” worth giving up that which makes me so exceptional, that which makes me different?

Why ohh why can’t I have it all?  I better keep writing because truth only means something in this world in the form of a grand gesture.  Or does it?  People only get it if you write a book about it.  Truth is wonderful in small doses or large, but people only “get it” in our society on the grand scale.  Or that’s the way it seems.  But really, what is truth anyway?