An examined life

is probably not the same thing as being incredibly self-involved. Just saying.

Woke up thinking about my time rant and still pondering the Harper‘s mag article on “Manufacturing Depression.” The two twisted together in my sleepy mind; as I rush from place to place with no room for human error, I’m setting myself up for failure. (And when I say “I,” I mean “we,” as I know plenty of people like myself.) Further, I end up stressed out, focused on damage control and my own incompetence instead of actively connecting with the people I love or otherwise achieving any of the goals I’ve set, which makes me feel isolated, hopeless and resentful despite this lovely life I have. So then I become one of those people about whom I would normally think, “What’s she got to be so damn depressed about?!”

I mean, I know people with real problems. Heck, I have bigger problems. Why is it the cumulative effect of the small ones that sends me almost over the edge? (“Almost” being the key word.) In fact, the big ones, like Nick’s diabetes, make me sad in a logical, concrete way that’s totally different from the vague, deep discontent I suffer from after a day of rushing around failing to quite live the life I have the way I want.

This is hardly just my problem – that feeling is well entrenched in American literature, movies and the profits of the pharmaceutical industy. In fact, it’s kinda boring, as if I was sitting around whining about being so fat and then had an epiphany that I should maybe get off my ass and stop eating so much.

That’s usually the solution, isn’t it? Getting off one’s ass?

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