But at the same time, I know that easy does not mean better.
But at the same time, I cannot help but wish that things were easier. I find myself every day scaling back, minimizing, trying to make things as simple as possible. Because simple is easier.
I have issues, people. Issues I know should be buried underneath the hopes I have for my future. And underneath the happiness that sometimes settles down around my shoulders for hours at a time. And all my time is spent deliberating between how to think about myself, how I should draw this honest picture of myself. Should I be totally critical and lay everything out, scrubbing all my faults so desperately that I leave myself raw and exposed? Or should I give myself a bit of a break and let all the extenuating circumstances bear some of the responsibility? Balance would seem to be the answer here, because I can see that neither one will be very helpful without the other.
I desperately want to see myself clearly. I want to know which parts to chuck in the trash, which parts to salvage, and which bits to upgrade. But when I start taking inventory of my insides, I become so overwhelmed and I find so many things that disappoint me. And some things that scare me. And other things that delight me, but also cause me to feel guilty because I struggle to think that I find delightful things in myself. Is that allowed? (Yes, I think it's totally allowed... for other people. But I don't allow this for myself? How is that even fair?)
I'm struggling terribly with discipline in my everyday life. How hard is it to eat breakfast? How hard is it to review Korean vocabulary for a few minutes on the train ride home? How hard is it to put down the book, or the cookie, or turn off the computer and take a walk outside?
Very hard, it seems. Maybe I have too many goals, too many improvements I'm trying to make at one time. But I'm annoying the crap out of myself and the self-loathing is growing increasingly harder to ignore. I spend so much time alone, in my comfortable, dark little hole. I'm tired of me. I'm tired of trying to improve things, of trying to become things, and failing. I'm tired of wanting things. I'm tired of small fires burning, but never consuming anything. My passions have dwindled to sort of half-hearted wishes that seem like tiny dots on the horizon of my life. They are slowly fading, like the car of the person you love as they drive away. You follow it until they are a miniscule spot (or until they turn a corner).
I'm entirely dissatisfied with myself. I am constantly ready to berate myself, to scream and rant against my lethargy, my lack of enthusiasm, my all-out inability to discipline myself in the ways I want. But as soon as I catch my breath, I feel sorry for myself and all the excuses for the way I am build a strong case for patting myself on the back. I'm living in Korea. I have no social life outside of my boyfriend (who is FABULOUS and PERFECT and completely awesome in every way). I miss my friends. I miss talking books. I miss having good conversations over good coffee. I miss Kerri, Melanie, and my sister. I miss reading in silence in a room with someone I love. I miss Tariq. I miss my mom. I miss communicating easily with people. I miss a person being an opportunity. Here, a person is a closed door most of the time. I miss Carmen. I miss my Dad and his perfect machine-like ability to just do what he says he's going to do.
I am the worst version of myself right now. And all I can manage is this silly, vague, blog post about it. I'm writing instead of doing. Another excuse that so easily manages to get me out of anything, because writing is important, right? Writing is essential. (Even this sentence is a lie, as the last time I wrote was like a week ago and it was a stupid post about my stupid hair.)
What the crap, people. What the crap?