Thursday, September 11, 2008
Inspired by Irwin's comment on my previous post, I reread The Bell Jar yesterday. I remember how the first time I read the same book, I felt the protagonist to be really normal: her thoughts, actions and especially her feelings. They seemed to be perfectly bland, why would anyone feel it was an epitome of depression and sadness? Maybe Sylvia Plath wrote that way to mimic the 'sour air' she wanted to convey about the bell jar. Or maybe her thoughts to me were normal because I felt the same way and no one feels strange staring at themselves in the mirror, seeing the same image morning after morning.
Frustrated this morning because of my ongoing flu' symptoms and even more so my bad night's sleep (skipped my Lorazepam; bad idea) I lay in bed, dazed, feeling bland. I cannot answer questions like 'Why am I unhappy,' or 'What makes me happy, because my answers nowadays are exceedingly bland. If I could forever remain in my home which is my asylum, I would feel safe, but bland. However I could do things I liked, like writing, reading, watching films, and Jian: all doable in my own home. I would be in a state of equilibrium.
But happiness is an elusive feeling. Peace I know, excitement I know, safety I know, love I know, but happiness? I am supposed to be happy, being on meds, moving along nicely, having J as my companion, having my dream job. Sadness has eluded me nicely; happiness too. Hence the daze, the blandness, and the desire to just remain in my own asylum. It is tiring to live life in a daze, with trying sleep, drained of energy, easily stressed like a hamster loose on a city sidewalk, and clueless about what I can do to make me happy. Do do do do do dodiddonedodododo. I am tired!