The Wrong Direction
27 January 2010 at 2:10 pm

It's nice to have routines in place when you become depressed again. I can show up for work and accomplish things without putting any thought into it. I can go to boot camp and mindlessly lunge. I can go home and take a shower and heat up the butternut squash tart I made on Saturday and do the dishes and nothing looks any different from the outside, as long as I'm following routines.

...until I'm driving between jobs and errands. That's when I'm crying. Or when I curl up in bed and have nothing else to do; I'm crying then, too.

I tried to do this sewing class Kristie did last quarter, and today was the second class. This class was not in my routine, and I am not a naturally crafty person. Actually, I don't enjoy crafts at all, and never have. I was mostly taking the class to figure out how to hem pants, which, being 5'1", is an expensive necessity.

The first (optional) project in the class was to make a bag, and I thought I'd give it a try, waste someone else's materials for what will surely be a disaster. It was, truly, an immediate disaster, and I thought, "I could be working right now. I could be making money to pay someone else to do this for me. And I would be a lot happier." So I quit. It cost me $38 and four hours to figure out that I am better off paying other people to do my sewing, and I feel like an idiot because I knew that before. But now I really know.

I ducked out of class and got in the car and cried. I had a few hours to kill before I had to be at work, so I went home and watched a Woody Allen movie, and cried. The time came to leave for work, so I got in the car, and cried. I stopped crying a block away from work.

I'm never going to be good at sewing because I don't want to be. I'm never going to be satisfied in a relationship because I'd rather be enough for myself. So I'm going to make enough money to pay other people to hem things for me. And I'm going to be happy alone.

It took me eight months to figure out that I'm better off alone, and I feel like an idiot because I knew that before. But now I really know.


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About me
Hi. Morgan, 27, of Santa Barbara, CA. I am a hypocritical admirer of rhetoric (when it is my own) and an observer of literary trends. A secret: I don't take anything very seriously, and that includes myself.