I'm Shouting, Can You Hear Me?

Rebecca Thorman, of Modite, says she feels like she is in a movie when it comes to her job. In fact, she wrote a post in response to my urging her for more info. She loves her job. And I'm truly happy for her.

But because I’m a cynic I immediately wonder what percentage of the time she feels like that, thinking, “Without that information there is no way for me to adequately measure my life against hers…” And this is where my glaring problem shines in all it’s, uh, brilliance.

I sometimes feel like I’m in a movie too. As it relates to my marriage, there are times when I’m in a sweeping love story, my heart full of adoration for a man who was lunatic enough to love me back. At times I feel I could die right then and there, fulfilled. However, as a friend of mine recently noted, "You are married to the love of your life and you're still not happy!" as we mused about discontent we were facing. I have problems even a wonderful husband can't fix. Most of the time I run at a frenetic pace, evaluating my life and job, measuring paychecks against dreams of fulfilling careers and parenthood, and grasping at threads in my relationships with family and friends.

Most of the time I am not a movie, but a mess. And this my grand thrust, that not only is life not about pleasing oneself, but it's simply not possible nor sustainable. It's about putting one foot in front of the other on whatever little path you care to eke out. Life isn’t about chasing a constant state of bliss, in one's job or love life. No matter how great your job or love life is.

And because I feel this way, I'm baffled and oddly enraged when I read Rebecca's blog. I cannot put my finger on where this rage comes from but, I found this quote by author William Gass on one of my new favorite blogs by Professor Gina Barreca which at least makes me feel like I'm not alone:

" ‘Getting even is one great reason for writing,’ said William Gass in a Paris Review interview. ‘I write because I hate. A lot. Hard. And if someone asks me the inevitable next dumb question, ‘Why do you write the way you do?’ I must answer that I wish to make my hatred acceptable because my hatred is much of me, if not the best part. Writing is a way of making the writer acceptable to the world — every cheap, dumb, nasty thought, every despicable desire, every noble sentiment, every expensive taste.‘ "

That’s my hatred I think Mr. Gass is talking about. I do not hate Rebecca, but I get jostled because she keeps prodding where I’m giving up. I hate that. She seems too hopeful, too liberal. Too much like the person I used to be. I’m mad at myself, so it’s no wonder I get mad at her too. I’m thinking, “I’ve become responsible and fallen in line…shouldn’t everyone else?” What I really want to say begins with, “Do you understand…” and ends with, “f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ckety f*ck!” But I’ll spare everyone the full diatribe.

I know she doesn’t write her posts with my specific situation in mind, she is catering to a broad audience, people with perhaps less psychological stress than myself. But don’t feel bad for me, that’s not what I’m trying to get at. I don’t feel sorry for myself. I keep going. I don’t give up, but I feel entitled to a bad attitude.

I have sought relief at every turn. My husband and his family suggest faith, a therapist I recently saw suggested a low-dose anti-depressant, my mother suggested meditation and my sister suggested kundalini yoga. I don’t think these things can help me. But you know what does? This blog. Writing, getting angry, putting a paragraph or ten on the internet for someone out there to read, ignore, hate, find salvation in, or whatever.

That’s why I think my name’s pseudo-Chinese translation immediately resonated with me: Shouting to Quiet the Thunder. It’s a neat little metaphor for my life. You will never out-shout thunder: it’s louder, it’s bigger, it could crush you. (Sonically speaking.) But like David and Goliath, just keep on trying. Keep fucking trying, you know?