Rejected

My job is to change people's minds. My job is to pry people away from their most prized possession. My job is to convert people to believers. And my job is to be rejected.

It hurts after a while. I get tired of the words cutting through me. "No, I don't want it." "No, it's not for me." "No, it isn't worth it." "No." I know other people have harder jobs, and I know people aren't rejecting me as a person, but it still hurts. I think that's the simple reason why I can't stand this job anymore. I'm tired of the rejection.

I think it's important as an employee to be valued. I work from home now. I speak to my boss maybe once a week. But I see customers every day, and I see the slump of their shoulder when I walk in the door. I see their eyes wander as they look at anything but me. I hear the aggravation in their voices at the interruption to their important days. I let it get to me, and I know I shouldn't. It's just draining being rejected every day. I wish I were selling something that made people excited to see me. Like cake. I wish I sold cake. At least if I didn't sell anything that day I would have a snack.

Swimming in mashed potatoes. And not the delicious kind with cheese.

I don't feel qualified.
I feel lazy. No, I know I'm lazy.
I have this stupid voice in my head all the time, and it keeps repeating over and over again how frustrated and disappointed it is in me.
I'm not crazy.
I know that voice is me. I know.
It's so easy to hate myself. It's easy to sit on the couch and cry, or to turn on the TV or read a book and forget that life exists. It's hard to get off the couch.
What the fuck?
See, this is the problem. I hate how pathetic I sound. I know a part of me must be doing this for attention. I want a story, I want to hit the bottom so I can begin a triumphant and glorious climb to success. I want my epilogue to be a sweet and beautiful montage of me laughing happily with friends. But I'm stuck here, listening to this stupid voice in my head that just keeps telling me over and over and over how lazy and pathetic I am. And it doesn't say that I can't amount to anything. It doesn't say that I have no hope. It says that there's plenty of hope if I just get off the couch and move.
But I'm afraid to move.
This is so pathetic. I am not depressed. I'm not the Hyperbole and a Half girl. (Whom I adore, by the way.) It would be disrespectful to her and all of the people who are struggling with a real problem to think that my whininess is anything like their disease.
But I still don't feel right.
I cry for no reason.
I avoid talking to people at all costs.
I see a therapist, but it isn't helping the way I thought it would.
Because I went to get help, dammit! This shouldn't be that hard! People have real problems, real problems that need to be solved, and my problems are not that bad!

I'm trying to apply to jobs. I'm afraid I won't get them. Or worse, I'll get them and they won't make me happy.

I'm working from home now. I hate it. Sure, I get to sit in my underwear and pet cats, but it just leaves more freedom for me to sit in a chair and cry. I need to plan ahead. I need to work harder. I need to make myself so busy and involved with something that I don't have time to sit around and cry. That's what I need. I need to force myself to be busy.
Except I'm lazy. And weak. And the cycle begins again.

I've been thinking for months that this job is tearing me apart. But now, I don't think it's the job. I think it's just me.

I want to get better. I want to feel happy. But it's fucking hard. I feel like there's too much gravity. I feel like I'm swimming in mashed potatoes. And not the delicious kind with cheese.

I'm tired a lot.

I wish I was sick. Then I would have an excuse.

I don't want to move anymore. I want to sit in my warm bed and escape.

I can't work on the weekends and stay sane. My boss wants me to. There's paperwork I should be doing. I can't do it. I should be sending emails. I should be trying harder.

Help.

I've read things and seen TV about people who have gone crazy. One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest was a great book. That House episode where he's in the psych ward thing was great. I couldn't finish The Bell Jar because it scared me too much. Am I Sylvia Plath? My therapist almost laughed when I doggedly asked if it was okay for me to read Bell Jar. She said I was fine. I'm fine. I'm not that bad. I'm being dramatic. It's not like I'm going to hurt myself. It's not like I've lost my grip on reality.
I'm just sad. And tired. And it hurts. A part of me doesn't even want a solution. A part of me wants a room with no door. And warm, soft blankets. And hundreds of books, and infinite episodes of Gilmore Girls and Parks and Recreation, and no way for people to get in. And I would have no knowledge of the outside. I would just exist, in that room, and I would have no idea that life could ever be any different or better or worse. Oh, and there would be lots of cheese. And a bathroom.

I don't know what I'm going to do. I don't really want to talk about this because I don't believe it. I don't believe there's really something that wrong with me. No, that's not true. I don't believe it's something help can fix. I have to fix it. I have to get off the couch. I have to stand up and do.

I just wish I didn't want to sit here and cry.