Once again, I find myself struggling to ward off what seems to be the inevitable. Am I amidst yet another “mid-life” crisis? God, feels like I’ve been through so many already. By now, I should more aptly be in a near “end-life” crisis if anything. But no, I’m exactly one week away from turning another year older and despite having successful stretches of good feelings, I predictably return to this point of dissatisfaction. I’ve discussed it before, and by now, you are certainly sick of the same old drill. What is this thing I am chasing, right?

Only three years ago, I swore that all I wanted was clear skin. If somehow the world order would grant me this, I vowed to be happy forever. Through endless bizarre diets and medications and obsessive compulsive web research, I ultimately found the answer and received what I most desired. And now my greedy-ass self has moved on to the next demand. At what point is this just a moving target for continual self improvement? At what point is it an emotionally destructive game of self denigration?

I went to the open mic again tonight. The same one I attended last week where I was so moved and touched by the words of a young writer/poet. He performed again today and was just amazing. So fucking brilliant, and I can’t help but feel disappointment with myself. I am an entire decade older and what talent have I? Who is my audience? Whose praise do I seek? Honestly, I think it is my own. I see so much beauty and intelligence and wit and talent around me– in people I know, in people I don’t know. And while I am relieved to have this freedom from the physical disfigurement I once suffered, and I’m happy about engaging in exercise activities I enjoy, I often feel such sadness that my life is wasted without any significant movement. So much greatness, so much brilliance around me and I… I feel so ordinary. I admire so many people, but I see so little to admire in myself.

I know this sounds ridiculous. My body even agrees because every time I feel this disappointment, my body does this laugh-cry reaction. The world is falling apart, and I choose not to appreciate what I have but to instead dwell on this insatiable search for whatever thing I can’t even describe. It’s stupid. Maybe part of it is that I do appreciate my good fortune, and that’s even more reason why I feel something about me should be extraordinary, because I have received so much in this life. How do I convert the good input into good output? Ugh, too much time on my hands. If I spent these agonizing hours learning Spanish or dancing hip hop/bboy or cooking or learning software, then perhaps I would be something more. I don’t know, but to be nearly 33 and still be haunted by these demons, I just don’t even know what to say.

And so I’ve decided to seek help. I’m always touting all my employee benefits… I might as well try out the therapy services. I’m not ashamed: I just worry about articulating these feelings in any sensible way such that someone can actually help me. I shall call first thing in the morning. I need to stop running around in circles.