At what point do you get so sick of yourself that you just give it up? At what point have you put far too much on your proverbial plate? At what point are there no more towels to throw in, no more ghosts to give up, no more nothing. The tank is empty. The brain is drained. Is this what the bottom of the barrel is? I don't think so. I've been lower. I've been ready to take my final exit stage nowhere. This is not that.
I have so much to be proud of. I have worked my not proverbial, but literal ass off to get to this point, and this isn't anywhere remotely close to the top. It is, however, a far sight farther away from the bottom than I've ever been.
I am just. so. tired. of. wavering. Back and forth, up and down, in and out, over, under, around, through the middle, above, and below. I'm beyond tired of it. I know what it is. I've let far too much of the outside world in again, and it has sanded away at my soul. I can safely say that I know from experience that what you put in is most definitely, without a doubt, what you get out.
This depression is a beast. Thing is, it's all self-inflicted. I chose this. I chose to consume the things that makes me go down this particular non-man-suit-wearing rabbit hole. The sugar. The bread. The carbs. The ungodly, migraine-inducing junk. That was me. I ate it. I didn't stop to think about it BEFORE I did it. I'm just complaining about it now. I know all too well what it does to my psyche, and yet I still did it.
I've done a metric ton too much of fuquitoling in the past year, and a mega-metric ton more of wavering, as well. There's this tremendous imbalance betwixt who I know I can be, and what I choose, and what I do. I'm never going to be a juggling artist. Never going to be a stilt-walker. Those things are for definite because I can't even balance my own self, here on the ground, planted firmly on my backside.
I am just so sick of my inability to get past my own BS. I really am. It's not something I ever talk about because who really wants to hear it? I just don't want to be this version of me anymore. I don't want to become what I've watched family before me become. I don't want to fall into the trap of being "older," and just giving up.
I want to be happy. I want to do things. I want to go places. I want to accomplish things. I want to see things. I want to hear things. I want to feel things.
I'm tired of feeling nothing much at all. I'm tired of being tired. I'm tired of making the choices that make me tired.
I'm not trying to be like anybody else. I'm not trying to keep up with any sort of Joneses, or anyone else with a bucketload of cash. I am also not defending my desire for more of what I want versus less of what I don't want.
This is probably about where I was in '17 before I discovered I could do the keto thing. I didn't go into it THEN with the mindset of diet-diet-diet-DIET ... I went in with the mindset that I no longer wanted to be sick from what I was eating. I did NOT want to become one of the 99.9999.95 million that lives on insulin, and 537,823 other drugs just to have a half-ass kind of life of nothingness. This is also not an affront to anyone who is living with Type 2 diabetes. This is ME knowing that I do not want THAT for the rest of my life.
I'm so sick of me, at this point, that any sort of change will do me good. I'm sick of what I've let happen to myself, or made happen to myself. I'm sick of not getting the things done every single day, and then staring at the lack of results as I move about my normal day-to-day BS.
I'm upset, and at no one or nothing other than me. So, this is garbage day, and this is where I start to get myself in order. I have two weeks until the new semester starts. That's ample time to build another foundation, and frame things.
Off I go.
Because I just filled the screen with so much detritus, here's a lovely shot of the sun setting in Chandler AZ, back in June to somewhat make up for it.
