i am digging this weather so much.
i am digging this weather so much.
A friend shared a quote with me this morning, and I'm struggling to put my finger on why I do not completely agree with it, despite the fact that he maintains that it's dead-on accurate:
Working hard for something we don't care about is called stress.
Working hard for something we love is called passion.
~ Simon Sinek
Perhaps it's because I don't think of things in terms of love/hate all that frequently. Honestly, I don't. If something needs doing, I do it. If I don't have the spoons for it right then, I wait until I do. I'm patient that way. Maybe it's because I don't truly have any overriding passions in my life? I am fairly dull, and I am self-aware enough to know this. I'm uninteresting precisely because I find doing things, even wonderful activities, emotionally challenging.
Perhaps that's all this is. Vastly different perspectives? As someone with destructive social anxiety, major depression, and who knows what other as-yet undiagnosed issues, it's strikingly difficult for me to leave the house most days. Even when I'm going somewhere fun, like out to eat or shopping. Other times I practically skip out to my car just to drive to work, which by most accounts is a fairly stressful place to be!
The fact that it takes me so much more energy than your average person simply to leave the house means doing so is stressful. For me, the act of forcing myself out of safe places simply is stressful. That's part and parcel for those of us with mental issues. Things most people take for granted are hard for me. And some things that you probably find difficult, boring, or uninteresting, I take mild enjoyment in mastering.
Does this mean, going by the quote's logic, that I "don't care about" leaving the house? No, going outside or into the city are both things I need to do occasionally to stay alive. I like going for hikes in the woods. I enjoy driving, even though some parts of driving are terribly hard on me. (Freeways. Merges. Road rage. All of these things make me crave the safety of home.) Does that mean driving is "too stressful" and I thus do not care about it? I do not suspect I even need to answer that. Obviously that is an untrue equivalency.
Does this mean on those days I am happy about getting to work, even though I know I am going to struggle there, that I "love work"? No. Again, I don't love work. It's a necessity, and one that most of us wish we could do without. Yet I go because it is expected of me, and I do not have a choice. I am passionate about keeping my job, because without that I would suffer even worse kinds of anxiety than those presented to me in an office setting. But this passion is not in any way synonymous with love. It just means I'm fearful of one specific consequence over another, and invested in maintaining the status quo.
No, I don't agree with this quote. It fails on so many levels to make sense to me, even though I wish it did. Human emotions and drives are not that simple.
For me and others like me, being alive is stressful. Love is stressful. Even passion is stressful! Trying to separate these things that are so inextricably intertwined is ludicrous!
The rare moments that are not stressful? Those. Those would be my true passion.
...If only I knew what they were.
I'm sure she would be thrilled and grateful! I know I would be, were it me.
From the fund description:
Even working non stop towards my goals I have found a lack of resources and wall of financial struggles. So I am asking for help. I am a transgender woman who was beaten so badly in 2014 by coworkers that I suffered fractures in my skull, eye socket, and nose. Attached below is a link to my story. A documentary and my speech at The Women's March. These injuries have left me with long-term effects. Including severe allergies and a collapsed septum that requires surgery to stop the irritation and allow me to breathe properly again.
I guess it was a bit of a downer. So was the utter crap that happened yesterday in Las Vegas, though. (Thanks again, American society, for producing these insane whack jobs and allowing them the tools they need to generate sorrow and havoc.)
I'm struggling today to ignore that little voice in the back of my head that always tries to remind me how nice it feels to be drunk. That I should just consider buying some whiskey on the way home. Because what harm would it actually do?
You shut up, you little shit voice. You know nothing.
I'm not sure how many people I know have ever felt this, and I'm not positive I can articulate it well.
I know I can't be the only one who feels it on a regular basis, though to be honest, I hope I'm wrong. Either way, I'm having a terribly rough day emotionally, and this has been plaguing me continually of late, so here goes...
The feeling I am thinking about is the feeling of inadequacy that one gets when they see a friend or relative do a task so effortlessly that it appears they are not even trying. It's the realization that one would not be able to do that task themselves, maybe even with years of practice, let alone with a modicum of skill.
It's the jealous knowledge that their peers are all better at pretty much everything than they are. And always will be.
It's the realization that because of the way one has developed and grown mentally, and her own myriad issues, this will never change, and she will always struggle with mundane tasks like caring for herself on a day-to-day basis.
This is a quiet but immediately desperate guilt. One that cannot be easily made to go away temporarily, let alone at all. One that lingers perpetually, even when one believes they have shaken it. A disquieting unease that never resolves itself.
This is a voice in the back of my head that tells me every day that, "you are incapable of living a normal life because of your mental limitations and phobias. You are not a complete person."
A recurring, less than gentle reminder that my thought processes do not work the same way that other peoples' do, and that I will probably never know what it feels like to be normal.
I know there is a common theme in autistic spectrum circles for this concept: the frustration at being self-aware enough to know how dreadfully vast the chasm between oneself and the rest of humanity truly is, but the inability to do anything about it. I simply don't know what it's called.
I don't know that I'm autistic. Heck, I don't know anything, really. Just this too-familiar feeling that I am lacking... "less-than", somehow. Not as good.
Though I have to admit... knowing what its called?: That sure as hell won't make it hurt any less deeply. Nor would it ease the sting of disappointment in, or resentment for myself that I feel every time this surfaces anew...