{F@#&ing precipice…again}

One of my favorite visuals is being on a precipice.  On the verge of something, trying to make the leap to a new and glorious whatever.  The image moves me.  It just does.  I have written poetry using it.  It was in a vampires voice but I wrote it none the less.

There have been several times in my life I have felt myself on said precipice, looking down into what could be the abyss or could be the above mentioned new and glorious whatever.  I never seem to make the leap.  I can never seem to find the courage, or the energy to just push on.  Fling myself headlong into the rest of my life.

You see,  if  I was utterly miserable, I think I could do it.   And I know this it totally a first world problem.  A lower middle class, whinny, can’t seem to find herself sort of thing.  But just as with everyone, my problem are very real to me.  That being said, I am not utterly miserable.  I have a job that is creative (florist), with people that I like most of the time.  I have a husband that I actually like, and that really is my best friend.  I suffer from depression, and anxiety mixed in with a low self esteem.  Nothing that a lot of other people don’t deal with on a daily basis.

My depression is not some special sort of concoction that stems from some horrible event in my life.  My Mom was broken and she broke me too.  My Dad left me early (I was 18).  I have mild dyslexia and ADD.  My chemicals are not quite right, but not so screwed up that I have to constantly take pills to even me out. I might have been molested at a young age, but I suspect he just made me so uncomfortable that the discomfort at being in his presence never left me.

I am over weight.  Morbidly so, but I don’t have high cholesterol or high blood pressure.  My doctor has not said anything about diabetes, even though it does run in my Mother’s side of the family.  I am peri-menopausal and hormones are running rampant though my system.  But I am not that miserable.

I am just not happy.

I am the poster child for a very mundane sort of dysfunction.

So, here I am again.  At that fucking precipice.  Feeling like something is going to happen, but I don’t know what.  The sad part is that I am so comfortable in my mild miserable state that I am scared to push into something else.  I have issues with safety.  The deep down safety that means a stable life, and that you can pay your bills by yourself.   Safety that means that you don’t have to add to your already free floating anxiety which you can’t quite put a name on.

I am not sure if happy is what I should be aiming for.  Happy is the up in a cycle.  Content maybe.  But part of the problem is that I am content in the quasi-misery.  I don’t know, I have never been one for radical moves.  I am not what you would call a conformist either, but I try to do things that make sense to me.  But what if I have been molded in to what society thinks a morbidly over weight person should be.  God, it makes my head spin to think of all this stuff.

I am tempted to say I just want to be me, but I read somewhere that that statement is one of the most inane in the world because you are who you are.  You are always who you are.  I guess I want to be someone stronger than me.  Someone who takes more risks.  I want to be the person I see in my minds eye when I think of me.  Of coarse that would be half the woman that I am today.  Literally.

Life is hard.  No, wait, living life if hard.  I don’t want to be the person that lets life beat me down.  And I do make periodic forays in to doing things that make me furiously happy(thank you Jenny from the blog!).

But most of the time, I sit in my semi-misery and talk to myself about how I need to change, knowing that I am doing nothing but talking to someone who is only half listening.