Morose and Generally Mopey

...which pretty much sums up my moods lately. Lots of moping and "depression," interspersed with small moments of happiness that quickly get squashed by my inability to think positively.

Seriously. I think my brain is trying to sabotage my every happiness. For example: the other night I was sitting on the couch with my husband, just enjoying being with him, and then suddenly it hit me - when he goes on a deployment, I will be without that simple happiness for seven months at a time. And, even though his first deployment is almost a year away (possibly longer), I started bawling.

He was, understandably, confused by this outburst.

It's not just him, though. Sometimes I'll allow myself to be contented (for a moment) that we're financially able to support ourselves without me having to get a part-time job at Taco Bell or wherever, and that I can stay home and do my own thing. Then I think: why don't I have a decent job? Why aren't I able to get one? And furthermore, why don't I have a college degree? How did I eff that up? Then it continues on and I end up asking myself the question: What do I actually do all day?

The answer: a whole lot of nothing. The internet is a curse in that way.

I mean, I do dishes. I bake. I tidy things up. I tidy myself up. Sometimes I do silly arts and crafts, just to occupy the time. What don't I do? Anything productive. I can't remember the last time I wrote something new. I haven't had a job interview in months. (That one isn't for lack of trying, though.) Lately I've been thinking about setting up an Etsy page with some of the little crafts I've done, that way I can feel like I have some sort of thing I have to keep up with... And I suspect that if I'm bringing in money, even if it's just a few dollars at a time, I might feel like I'm being at least slightly productive.


I think what really frustrates me about the whole thing is that I should be writing. It's what I use to justify away the need/want for a college degree. ("Well, if I can publish a book without one, what's the point?") It's the title I give away sometimes when people ask what I do for a living. ("Oh, I'm a writer. Currently working on a fantasy trilogy.") BUT I'M LYING. Because I'm not actually working towards anything, because I'm not actually working.

I've got a horrible spiral going. Not writing makes me depressed, but I get so depressed that I don't feel like writing.

GAH!


What's worse? I'm complaining when there's nothing actually wrong with me. I'm (mostly) healthy, we have a nice place to live, and there are people who love and care about me. I have friends. I have family. I have two adorable (albeit frustrating) dogs. I have full use of my arms and legs. Generally speaking, I have a good life. So why can't I find that place of contentment?

And why can't I find the drive to effing write!?


(Sorry this one was so negative. I'm fine, really. Just frustrated. And, I think, starting to realize just how far California is from most of the people I want to hang out with right now. Blah.)