Upon re-reading and reflection, I'm not sure I really understand what you're saying after all.I DON'T KNOW. Which is, in a nutshell, the problem.
"I wrote down my deepest feelings as a type of therapy for years, but it was only when I blogged that other people wrote back" sounds like you feel the writing back is a good thing.
And yet when people show concern — when they give a rat's ass about what you say and "[try] to help" — you call them "sensitive people" who "get unnerved", as though having people care about you is a kind of imposition.
So what do you want?
Do I consider it an imposition when people care about me? Yeah, in a way I think I do. Because deep down in my heart, I believe I don't deserve people who care about me. I mean, come on, look at me. I'm sitting here whining about how my life is So Damn Hard and I mean--come on, I don't even have a fucking job! Aren't I the kind of guy who just needs to be shunned and ridiculed?
I spent most of this evening metaphorically curled up in a fetal position, even as I cooked pasta and sauce for dinner (yeah, I can't cook worth a damn either). I have all these commitments this month which I won't detail here, but they are all way the fuck out of my comfort zone, and I'm just at sea about how to proceed. The only saving grace is that come April 21st they'll be gone, assuming I'm not straitjacketed by then. Yet I know--I know--that if I were qualified for these various things (all of which I signed up for of my own volition!) they'd all be a piece of cake. They are not rocket science.
I may have used this before, but in my friend Mike's breakout show, he made a point how everyone really believes they're competent at their job. Go on, raise your hands if you feel you're competent. It's a miracle! No one who reads Rooster Spice is incompetent! All the incompetent people are stuck at Eschaton or something! (This joke works better in a theater--"all the incompetent people are wandering the streets, wondering where 21 Dog Years is playing!")
Well, it's a horrible realization when you determine you are, in fact, incompetent. That's got to be the explanation, right? I mean, I've got a hundred-thousand-dollar education and I can't even manage being a professional parent, for God's sake! The only reason I'm not homeless (or dead) begins with a K and I'm married to her. (No, this is not hyperbole; without my wife my depression probably would have sent me to the streets. Or a Pulitzer, maybe.)
The lighthearted post from a couple days ago masked a real question: what am I going to do when the kids are in junior high? I don't fucking know. The idea of re-entering the workforce fills me with absolute terror. The notion that I could make a name for myself as an independent animator is utterly ridiculous, not to mention far too expensive to contemplate. (Travel and entry fees add up, and I have made exactly 100 dollars on any of my films over a four year period.) So what do I do? Continue leeching off my wife for the rest of my life?
(On the other hand, no one ever accused a housewife of leeching off of her husband, back in the day. But most housewives actually kept house. Ask my wife when the last time was I cleaned the bathroom, and then be prepared for the riotous laughter.)
I know this post is the adult equivalent of "everybody hates me, waaaah!" and it sure seems like I'll never get past that. So don't bother treating this as a serious call for help. I'll be over it soon enough, until next month when I get stressed and tired again. It never gets any better (or, indeed, worse), no matter how hard I try.
