I found myself sobbing into our open fridge last night, whilst searching for cheese. Full of a sadness that is very hard to define.
It’s nothing new though, this phenomena. I mean, don’t we get all get introspective at this time of year? And The January Blues are a scientifically proven thing, aren’t they? An actual bonafide condition.
The reason for my tears seemed clear at first: it’s been a bitch of a week. I spend way too much time caring about my job. Conjuring up problems that just aren’t there; pretending the issues that actually are there, aren’t. Much, I’m sure, like every other employed person on this planet.
But I’m a lowly Marketing Assistant, not the CEO of a vast company, Editor-in-Chief of Vogue or a brain doctor. I organise things, write copy and give presentations; what is there really to stress about?
I think I can safely say that sometimes the littlest things trigger a very bad attack of The Doubts. Feeling inadequate because things aren’t going perfectly is one thing but given the right environment it can mutate.
Suddenly you find yourself cocooned in your robe on the sofa, losing your shit to Don’t Tell The Bride, lamenting how terrible your life is because you’re no longer 27 and what the fucking fuck are you even supposed to be doing with your life anyway?
My dreadful imagination has me homeless on the streets, never to be employed again. It has me penniless and alone because I never get over the horror of losing the job I don’t even know has the future I hoped for anyway. I curse myself for not being better, for not having a talent.
For being a bad person. A bad partner. A terrible sister, daughter and friend. I turn myself inside out, pulling at the stuffing until there’s nothing left. I don’t deserve anything, will never amount to anything.
I might as well leave this crazy city with nothing but the clothes on my back, like Julia in Sleeping With The Enemy on a Greyhound bus. See if I can’t start a new life somewhere quaint. Rebrand myself with a new name, maybe get a little job in a book shop.
Better this course of action than just going to bed, getting a good night’s sleep and getting the fuck over myself.
I blame January for all of this. For being miserable and underwhelming and poor. January angers me because it always comes in to the sound of trumpets and fireworks.
It’s not all that. It’s just another month but 86 days long.
I’m over it. The Blues won’t win this one. But if I want to mope and cry and eat cheese for the remainder of the month, then… so be it.
How you doin’? #january