Sink and Swim

The little blue pills didn't work. I was unable to fall asleep in any sort of graceful way, and ingesting them made my tummy hurt. What a gyp.

When I heard that Elliott Smith stabbed himself in the chest, I was very sad. I remember hearing him on NPR one night on the way home from another late night at work, which was at the time MP3.com. It was Waltz No. 2, and it was so beautiful and melancholy and painful and filled with the bitterness of rejection. I was, I thought, happy in a relationship at the time, but the nuances were still so very familiar. I became a fan immediately. A little late in the game, perhaps. But a fan no less. He was supposed to perform at a concert I was planning to attend. I'm sorry I will have missed him at last. And to stab oneself in the chest. Really. Unhappiness can be so brutal.

Here is another place I've not yet been.

This is me not getting there.



And this is me getting somewhere else entirely.



Isn't it strange how things turn out?

Unhappiness really is brutal. I sometimes think that people don't take it seriously enough. People who love you are helpless to offer much more than the imperative, "Cheer up!" And you are powerless to acquiesce to that command. It doesn't always last forever. It doesn't always mean anything. But it sucks the very life and color and substance out of everything when it is upon you. It empties you of everything that might act as buffer. There are days when I feel as if I dislike everything about myself and my life. Most of all, I dislike the fact that I feel guilty and self-conscious for saying so. Because it seems so absurdly self-indulgent to say, "I'm sad." Because it smacks of self-centered, adolescent attention-wanting. And I remember what that was like, too.

Oh, forget it. I can't help but appear to be a jerk when I'm in this mood.