Crazy Cat Lady: January 2008

Today is my depressing day. I'm in a "I have no friends, no talents, no life, and am going nowhere" day. I spent part of the morning looking at a friend's blog that describes her newly published book. I know I shouldn't compare myself to anyone else, but it's hard not to. I've wanted to be a writer for SO long...it's the one career ambition that has been consistent since childhood, and yet I let self-doubt overpower any talent I may have. The friend describes writing and re-writing her book over and over, but from the impression I get, once she started looking for an agent, it happened pretty quickly. I do know that she said it took her agent three days to sell it to a publisher. Not the struggling writer scenario you usually hear about. Of course, she seems to be an exceptional writer, which somehow only makes me feel crappier. It's like reading a powerfully descriptive passage from a Stephen King novel, and you just sit there in awe of the way he manages to place you right there in the scene. I know, we can't all be Stephen King...but why can't I?

Then there's the whole "write about what you know" thing. I don't know jack. I am the most boring person I know. I don't even really have hobbies. I watch freaking TV. How pathetic are you when that's your hobby? I've always been more interested in hanging out with friends, forming memories about the time someone did something stupid or clumsy or shocking. That was great in college, it was the time of my life, but I don't have any friends anymore. Seriously. I am such a loser. When I find someone I think I could get to be really good friends with, I manage to drive them away somehow. Part of the problem is that I'm too honest. I tell the truth and expect the same in return, but women aren't that way, which is why I've always been better friends with guys. I always manage to hurt someones feelings, usually without even knowing it. For example, I work with a chick who hasn't spoken to me in a year because she felt I insinuated that her boyfriend wasn't handy around the house. When I asked her what was wrong and she told me, I sincerely apologized--I actually used the word "sincerely"--but she refuses to speak to me unless I speak to her, and then it's only a curt "hello." Granted, I'm pretty sure she is the one with the problem in this case, but it's just an example of how my friendships with women go.

I currently have a few friends that I get together and quilt with (told you I'm boring), but they seem like the kind that would get their feelings hurt easily, so I find myself walking on eggshells with them. That's not the kind of relationship I'm looking for. Oprah says a woman should have five types of women friends, and one is the honest girl, the one you go to when you need an honest answer, no b.s., and that you shouldn't get offended by because that's who they are and why you love them. Unfortunately, no one loves that about me.

The thing is, the people who truly know me know that I'm not trying to be insulting. Trust me, if I'm insulting you, you'll know it without a doubt. My tone of voice, decibel level, and glaring eyes will make it perfectly clear.

Back to the writing thing. The thing that probably sucks the most is that because of the depression that has me on anti-depressants, I no longer have any urge to write. The knowledge that that's who I am is still there, but there's no actual drive, no inspiration. So here I sit, having written more than I have in quite a long time, but it's nothing more than a blog entry. And the longer I go without writing, the more talent I lose, the more grammar skills I lose, the more of myself I lose.

Labels: depression