Reprise, I'm going to abuse your thread now.
I'd be first in line to make a remark like "how about you use a diary or lifejournal?" but fuck it. That's part of my problem.
I feel like I have no right to say that life occasionally really sucks. That I suck. Or both.
Once you've talked your way through conversations with a counselor or a therapist, you can tell yourself so many wise things, you can argue back and forth with yourself, the "pro-tips" how to deal with it are in your head.
That's fine, but what's missing is being able to just say out loud to anybody that you feel like shit. A counselor gets paid to listen to your self-important rants.
"White guilt" is not the right term for what I mean, maybe "privilege guilt." Along the lines of not having the right to be overwhelmed or not able to deal with something properly. Or to just rant.
I don't have cancer, my home didn't get hit by a tornado, I'm not living in a war. No right to complain, there are always people who are dealing with much more than I am. People (who don't know much about me as a private person) tend to say things like "look at you, you're so lucky!"
I get categorized as a winner.
One might assume that's more desirable than being judged as a loser, but I'd like to say, you know what? Fuck you, and fuck what you think. You know shit. You make assumptions based on income, you make remarks about my 'career', but how does that make things automatically perfect or easy for me?
Yes, I like my work, lucky me, but a 'career' means ultimately shit to me. Yes, by now I'm doing well financially. Nice, makes many things easy, but I can't buy myself a less troublesome family, or less self-doubt, less problems in a relationship, I can't make people I care about not die. Many things scare me, I'm not good at dealing with rougher times. I have the same human personal problems everybody knows.
But nobody wants to hear that or would take it seriously, it's not respetable to say life sucks as a '"winner." I am the one with the furtunate life, this illusion has to fucking work in their eyes. I have to function and be happy, because I'm so lucky. What a downer if I started crying right in the middle of a fucking fancy dinner at the restaurant and yell that I'm sick of having to be the successful foreigner with the charming smile.
Dear diary, now I'm done. This is what depression looks like, too. (with bad grammar and spelling, because I suck at that, too.)
Last edited by pavementtune : 05-12-2014 at 02:27 AM.