There’s Something Going On That’s Not Quite Right

My days start well and end poorly, and I guess the central struggle within my brain these last weeks has been the fight to determine why that is. Why is it that I can’t carry on through the day that feeling I have at the end of my morning writing session? Why is it that I am so quickly worn down by the weight of another day? What is it that consumes my will to be happy? I can’t quite say.

I was quite pleased with what I wrote for “The One About Robin” this morning. Looking back on it tonight, I see myself falling into all the same old bad habits. I see myself writing worthless crap. That’s not what I’m writing, not at all. I know, deep down, that its good—that it might even be really good. So, why do I end the day hating the same thing that I began the day loving? Am I that mentally deranged?

I spent too long on the couch tonight, after getting angry at the gym because I couldn’t read Howard Zinn’s thick tome while on the exercise bike. I spent too long yelling at Stephanie about how I didn’t know what was wrong with me, why I couldn’t handle it all, how I couldn’t even figure out why I was upset. I hadn’t even had an awful day.

She suggested that I expect too much of myself, that I push myself too hard. I wasn’t hearing it then. I wonder, now, if it really is true.

Okay, before we go, let’s play the ‘What was Chris listening to as he wrote this?’ game. The title of this entry refers to a song that was included on an album released in 1987 according to my little iTunes thingy. If you can guess, you win an e-mail with the URL to this web site.