Every few weeks I feel so incredibly low that it’s difficult to articulate. And it’s accompanied by guilt because, after all, what do I have to feel down about? Life is good, really. I mean… I wouldn’t complain if someone were to hurl a million pounds at me, or if Jude Law (as Graham from The Holiday) randomly declared his undying love for me, but generally speaking, life is good: I work for myself, I live pretty much alone now, in my own house, with a stinky dog and three disdainful cats. I still have both of my parents–and a good relationship with them. I have three kids of whom I am immensely proud (they are objectively wonderful humans). I drive around the country at night performing comedy because, unbelievably, people want me to. I’m incredibly lucky. Ridiculously so.
And yet. This feeling.
The spiteful voice in my head telling me no one likes me; that I’m alone because I’m unlovable and want things or people that are unavailable; that people spend time on me as a last resort; that I’m doing okay because I haven’t been found out yet; that I’m embarrassing; that I’m winging it; that I’m past it.
The minute by minute self loathing is exhausting. But I’ve no right to it. It’s lazy and it’s pointless.
In a couple of days I’ll wake up and I’ll know within a second that the feeling has lifted. And the cycle will begin again. But for now I’ll just lie on the sofa in my dressing gown (I’m lucky I get to do that, too, in between sessions of the day job) hating myself, feeling unable to function, wallowing in the darkness, and watching mindless Netflix crap.
What an ungrateful waste of time and life.