Just so we are all clear

Contrary to popular (and seemingly prescient and certainly uncontroverted) opinion, I do not actually enjoy complaining. Elevating misery to a refined verb, an art form of the highest caliber, a sinful treat to be savored, ravaged, devoured. Nope, none of these things are either goal or means to an end for me.

Yet I cannot stop. Why?

My complaints ring hollow even to me. Wheezy, dusty remnants of what perhaps may have been, at one time or another, intelligent and interesting conversation. Once realeased into the air, their pervasive veil of sooty bitterness simply hangs in the air. Sucking the vitality and vibrance out of everything around them.

All of that being said, it cannot be denied that (1) I complain. A LOT. and (2) that given the pervasive role that I allow misery to take in my life, I must have some sort of strange affinity for it.

And that is where I get stuck, because I truly do not believe that I enjoy being unhappy. It cannot be true, if only because, well, I refuse to believe it.

I do not want to be miserable.

I do not want to be unhappy.

I do not want to be THAT girl, that girl, or that girl.

Recently it occurred to me that the human condition is one which, though complex, is ultimately geared towards one thing - survival. Success, as a species, is not based on happy, successful, or satisfied, it is based on simply living and outliving those around you. As such, both the body and the psyche are geared towards simply keeping one alive. It is therefore the blessing and the curse of the human condition that the psyche can get used to just about anything. A blessing because it allows one to endure hardship - physical and/or mental - to endure until that time when endurance is no longer necessary. A curse because it allows one to endure hardship - physical and/or mental - to endure until that time when endurance is no longer necessary. But since the mind and body do not know when that time will be, they both simply get used to the circumstances, however trying, amongst which they have been placed.

I have no coordination. Never have. My only physical gift has ever been endurance. The ability to continually put one foot in front of the other, generally for longer than most people around me. Mentally, it must be the same. I put one foot in front of the other, continuing on, no strategy but to muster forth. There is no strategy in it. There never has been. Any change has simply been fortuitous, due to the passage of time and the inevitable varying of the backdrops, but the path has always been the same.

I complain because I like avoiding the question. I complain because then I never have to come up with the answer. I complain because I am used to it. I complain because it makes standing in one place easy and less shameful. It allows me to trick myself, to obscure my vision to the fact that I am not moving forward. That I am making the same errors over and over and over again.

That is not wisdom. That is not caution. At best that is ignorance. At worst masochism.

Likely, it is fear.

I am scared of what my life could be if I were to define it. I would have to accept my own opinions as correct. I would have to be my own measuring stick.

I do not know how to do this.

I have never done it.

I don't express opinions well. Being well liked is so important to me, that I fear that it has in fact overshadowed what is most important - being well respected.

Respect is bestowed on those who know themselves.

I am nearly thirty years old and I do not know myself. I have inklings, but I have never really explored who I am.

I don't listen.

If I did, I would hear my own complaints, and my heart would break or my anger would come to a violent boil, but either way, I would be spurred to take action. To save myself or to teach myself a lesson, either way, to extricate myself from that which is clearly wrong, and set myself down on a path which may not be right, but which at least holds the promise, the possibility of right.

I have always said, and I continue to believe, that there is not a lot that I want in this world. When I close my eyes and I think about what I would like, more than anything, I can easily distill it down to one word - one which has always been constant, and one which will never change - comfort.

I simply want to be comfortable. My vision of comfort - perhaps surprisingly, perhaps not - has very little to do with designer labels or with bright flashbulbs or newsprint paeans. It never has. When I close my eyes and I think of comfort, I see something that looks like an ad for laundry detergent. White sheets softly flapping in the breeze, their crisp brightness illuminated against the lush green grass, the sun warm, the distance a frame of shoreline, the sound of water, the erratic yet rythmic movement of water humming in the background. Of course I never actually see myself in this place, but I know that I am there because I feel it. And I do not see anyone else (not even the Snuggle bear) but I know I am not alone, because I feel that too. I feel those around me, their strength and their support. I am marinated in love. There is no reason to worry because I am marinating in love.

But when I close my eyes and I envision this marinating state, I am imagining what it must be like, as I have never really felt loved in my entire life. That is not to say that people have not/do not love me - they have/they do (at least in accordance with what they chose to tell me) - but I don't think I have ever felt it. I think I may have felt beginnings of it, and then I realize how safe and warm I feel, and I get scared and inside I push it away. To enjoy being loved is to lose it. One must worry and be vigilant to be loved. Look at how well that has worked out so far.

Those that love me just want me to be who I am. If they believe I am someone worth loving, someone distinct must be in there. She must not be as undiscovered as I believe her to be.

How do I find her? If not for me, then for the people in my life that I love - so that I may be less onerous, more giving, more complete and more present?

Either I stop complaining. Or I start actually listening.