Ummm, yeah

So I hate coming up with titles for these things because most of my posts are so lacking direction or focus. I'm thinking of visiting some random name generator to do it in the future.

I finished this major thing at work yesterday and I think I'm broken. Because I should feel better. Lighter. At least less sleep-deprived. But instead I went home yesterday and the only thing that kept me from crying all night was the chance to finally see Monday's Chuck and Heroes episodes. No, I'm not going to talk about how Heroes has sucked me into its strange cult of fuck!me! right now. There are things happening in my brain that I'm certain psychotropic medications may fix, but for now, I'm enjoying the ride.

I couldn't sleep last night (hence the sleep deprivation), and for some reason, my hands kept itching. Not in some prophetic "money!" way, but in a "Did I eat something weird?" way. But even that wasn't it. I sometimes itch when I'm stressed out. I broke out into hives on the day I was supposed to be competing in the Missouri State Junior Olympics. The night two of our cafe staff and my only other closing lead had to leave the store early, my manager almost sent me home because I was scratching my arms to bleeding. It doesn't happen often, but when it does, it's spectacular.

But I shouldn't have been feeling that at all yesterday. I should have felt light, grateful, pleased, even.

I am afraid I have become that thing I can't stand - an apathetic human. I know apathy is a normal reaction sometimes. That it protects us from internal and external stresses. My problem is with those who use it as an excuse to not care about anything going on around them, not engage with the world, and keep from even trying to make a difference. I see apathetic people as the close cousins of cynical people. And really, I don't hate such people. I love quite a few cynics, actually.

My apathy, though, is the result of something else. I've spoken before about how I do not know how to ask for help. Trust me when I say: I would rather chew off my own hand sometimes than ask for help. Not because I think I do everything best, but because I don't trust others will come through for me. I have been working very hard to let that go, to trust that the people in my life are willing to step in, hold me up, keep me sane, when I ask for it. But the asking is still hard as shit.

If my life were a movie, it would go something like this:
No, scratch that, not nearly important enough for a movie, maybe TV movie? Nope, nothing melodramatic enough happening. Little indie feature starring Catherine Keener (can she play me? because I lurvs her) that has no actual plot, but little character observations? ...no, then I'd have to have sex with an obviously mentally disturbed Jake Gyllenhaal character.

Hmmm.

Okay, if my life were an episode of Murder, She Wrote, I would be the character incorrectly accused of murder because I couldn't reach out to others and just when my faith in humanity is almost gone, sitting in my lonely jail cell, being harassed by the ignorant local cops, Jessica Fletcher would come riding in on her brilliant blaze of glory and show me what trust in others means, because she trusted I was innocent even though she didn't know me. She just had a feeling about me. Because she's made of all the awesome in the world. There is no more air for awesome when Jessica Fletcher is around. And don't get all "But everywhere she goes, people die!" Yeah? People die everywhere, bub. But with Jessica Fletcher around, you can guarantee the right person will go to jail for it.

My life, alas, is not an episode of Murder, She Wrote. Pity, that. I think Jessica Fletcher would be an awesome friend.

Because when I do ask for help? Really and truly break through that wall and say, "Hey! I'm drowning here! Please help me with this one specific thing, huh?" And whoever I ask says, "No problem!" And I feel better for a little while. Until it occurs to me nothing has been done. So when I do it again, because by this point, I really really need the help. And someone else says, "No problem!" I start feeling a little less better, because by this time I'm thinking...yep, right. No help there either. The laughable part comes when someone asks if they can help me and I say - all excited - Yes! Please! Can you do this? And they look at me and make some assenting noises and...right. Just tell me no, next time, 'k?

So instead of being the plucky girl wrongly accused of murder who learns that help is there if you ask for it, I am now the whiny bag of itchy sleep-deprived apathy who learns she can't count on those who are supposed to be there for her.

So I finished a long-overdue project yesterday. And I should feel lighter. Instead all I feel is the continuing pressure of everything else. And the sinking feeling I'm in this alone.