Purpose
Sometimes I wonder if the reason people turn to religion is to be able find a surrogate purpose in their lives. If you believe in a god you can say things happen because "it is god's will." It's a great crutch if you are a loss for finding purpose on your own.
I don't want to write about how I feel in my other blog. I don't want to write about despair or depression or lack of meaning. I can read about that in enough other blogs. And I don't want advice from well meaning strangers.
One of the things that used to piss me off when the warlock BDSM goat herder would leave comments on my blog was that it was always something about him. I wanted to respond, "Fuck you. This is my blog. Go whine about your unhappy childhood in your own pitiful blog. I can't help it you suffer from short man syndrome." But no, I'd always be polite. I was always raised to be polite, even to assholes.
Oddly enough, I am not looking for anyone to comfort me. I gave up believing anyone could comfort me after hundreds of dollars of therapy bills and anti-depressants. And to think that one time in my life I thought I wanted to be a psychologist. How depressing would that have been. Sitting around nodding and looking sympathetic when all you want to do is slap the person and say, "you are pitiful."
It always bugged me to pay someone to listen to me. It seemed too much like paying a prostitute. At least a prostitute would be honest about screwing you. It also bugged me how they'd stop you mid crisis when your time was up and usher you out the door like a one-night stand they'd woken up next to.
Obviously I have issues about therapists. Perhaps I need to see a therapist about it. Ha, ha.
What am I looking for? Purpose. I want a reason to be. I want to matter. I used to think being a published writer would mean I mattered. I wanted my words to change people's lives. Maybe it is an ego thing. Or maybe it is just human nature.
We are raised to think we are special and then we go out into the world and discover everyone thinks they are special and other people are ordinary. And when you stand in line at Starbucks and the 20-something cashier chats up the Amazon.com goth geek for 15 minutes while you wait patiently to order your grande Americano with room, you realize that you really aren't special. You are invisible, especially to the 20-somethings.
But suppose it is god's will.
I don't want to write about how I feel in my other blog. I don't want to write about despair or depression or lack of meaning. I can read about that in enough other blogs. And I don't want advice from well meaning strangers.
One of the things that used to piss me off when the warlock BDSM goat herder would leave comments on my blog was that it was always something about him. I wanted to respond, "Fuck you. This is my blog. Go whine about your unhappy childhood in your own pitiful blog. I can't help it you suffer from short man syndrome." But no, I'd always be polite. I was always raised to be polite, even to assholes.
Oddly enough, I am not looking for anyone to comfort me. I gave up believing anyone could comfort me after hundreds of dollars of therapy bills and anti-depressants. And to think that one time in my life I thought I wanted to be a psychologist. How depressing would that have been. Sitting around nodding and looking sympathetic when all you want to do is slap the person and say, "you are pitiful."
It always bugged me to pay someone to listen to me. It seemed too much like paying a prostitute. At least a prostitute would be honest about screwing you. It also bugged me how they'd stop you mid crisis when your time was up and usher you out the door like a one-night stand they'd woken up next to.
Obviously I have issues about therapists. Perhaps I need to see a therapist about it. Ha, ha.
What am I looking for? Purpose. I want a reason to be. I want to matter. I used to think being a published writer would mean I mattered. I wanted my words to change people's lives. Maybe it is an ego thing. Or maybe it is just human nature.
We are raised to think we are special and then we go out into the world and discover everyone thinks they are special and other people are ordinary. And when you stand in line at Starbucks and the 20-something cashier chats up the Amazon.com goth geek for 15 minutes while you wait patiently to order your grande Americano with room, you realize that you really aren't special. You are invisible, especially to the 20-somethings.
But suppose it is god's will.
3 Comments:
Tim,
I highly recommend that you add filters to THIS blog. If it's beta, its under format "permissions". Michael just recently attacked me on his blog, under "balance". I've changed my blog and will be sending you an invite soon. Better safe than sorry.
For the life of me, I can't find filters anywhere.
I caught his dig in that post. I'm not sure why he gets so insecure about other people's actions on their blogs.
It's under "setting" and then "permissions". Not that you have to add a filter, it just freaked me out to think of Michael reading any of this. He WILL NOT have access to my blog from here on out.
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