It is an odd habit to romanticize misery. Whether it be a vehicle of familiarity or fondness, the result is a resistance to positive change. Even writing the words “positive change” was met with a subtle disdain just now. Why would someone want to remain unhappy? It’s fucked up.
4:29 AM (June 8): With five home health patients to see and six hours at a facility in Wintersville, I began my day at 3:00 pm. While this is a triumphant decry of doing what I want, it is also worth considering that I want to be less inviting of stress and financial or professional repercussions. Still, each time I began to foster that familiar visceral tightening, I was able to cultivate a modicum of fuck it in defense of my overall sense of wellbeing. Even if the affect was artificial, fabricated upon a false premise, it was surprisingly effective. There was an intermittent interjection of a fairly pronounced “uh oh” throughout the day rather than a persistent, overwhelming state of dread and despair and resentment for a situation I created. A set of self-perpetuated circumstances I consider unfair beneath the surface, even though I would never admit it, though I suppose I just did. It is my good intention to practice cultivating this mindset in circumstances I cannot control and make an honest effort to create fewer circumstances in which to practice.
