Lately, I am actually afraid to write things that aren't nice. Powerful parts of me would really like the me that others see to be regarded as this positive force for change all the time. Like I am some kind of saint who can float above the craptacular myriad of life's troubles and toss off frothy commentary about how blessed I am with love and community.
Part of me wants to live like those lovely design weblogs look with their strings of pretty furniture and accessories and decorative yet functional objects where everything is clean and has its place and doesn't smell funky. That, too, would be its own particular kind of hell if I were stuck there perpetually, but it would be nice to feel it now and again.
The truth is that I am feeling pretty bitchy these days, hatey and sweary and all-'round don't-fuck-with-me.
See? That there? Where I swore? I am not in the least bit opposed to swearing. It's language that packs a punch, and I like that. Shit damn. But, still, I internally cringed when I typed fuck, because I have that damnable enforced positivity thing nipping at my heels all the time.
I am wondering if my urge to be a one-note wonder is the product of me feeling very exposed these days. I feel naked. Nakeder than naked. Like everyone can see my underwear, and they totally know that it's nearly a decade old with dead elastic and a saggy gusset.
Also, I am not being very good at being positivity's one-note wonder. I have definitely not been all sunshine and roses in all of my writing lately. I just feel kicked with what feels like guilt every time I post something that isn't somehow life-affirming and inspiring.
It's not guilt I'm feeling, though. I thought that that was what it was, but I was wrong. What I've really been feeling is disappointment. A portion of me is the hope-springs-eternal idealist, and I have this strong pull to want to believe that every jerkwad I meet who makes me feel bad is really a lovely human being who is only armouring themselves against the world's unremitting onslaught. Another portion of me, though, doesn't believe that Pollyannaish crap for a second, because people never really stop being self-interested, megalomaniacal children, and maturity is really just another term for the refined ability of social deceit.
Both stances leave me open to feeling either pretty disappointed or confirmed in my disappointment every time someone is less than sweet. It's like I'm some wilty hothouse flower over here. I am not crazy about either world view, but the first one seems like the better deal if I am ever to decide to leave my apartment again.
All of that disappointment is really just part of the many side effects of the ass end of winter and not the result of a sudden proliferation of jerks, though. Unless the jerks are proliferating, which would explain a few things. Spring is always a difficult time of year for me, and the ugliness of trying to write about complex and depressing matters of the brain further muddies my perspective.
Isn't it sunnier now? Hasn't it jumped from a ridiculous -40°C/F to an eminently livable +22°C/68°F? Shouldn't I be in the mood to skip through fields of new, green grass or something?
Oh, I know, IT MUST BE THE PERFECT TIME TO LOATHE HUMANITY AND WALLOW IN MY MISTRUST OF OTHERS. Especially that cashier at the drug store who always smiles at me like she knows my dirty, little secrets. And that weird alleycat with the missing ears that smells my shoes. And maybe the government. Yeah, totally, the government.
And, for some reason, I've become reacquainted with my fear of the toaster, but that might be another matter altogether.