Week Seven: LSB Mood

LSB Mood or Lazy, Sulky Bitch Mood: A point of time wherein I am so positively unpleasant and difficult to be around that my habits and attitudes are most readily described as sullen and cranky. It is in the best interest of those nearby to stay the fuck out of the way until the LSB Mood calms down.  

When I set out to do this project, it was in the pursuit of taking responsibility for my own happiness and success. But ultimately deciding what that means to me still seems to be a matter of contention. How does one define their own happiness? I've always found that I am most in the space of joy when all of my ducks are in a row, perfectly organized, pleasantly arranged, and aesthetically pleasing.

Perhaps, then, it should come as no surprise then that figuring out my own measure of happiness has been somewhat difficult as of late. Even I realize that my own standards are a bit ridiculous.

If I've failed to mention it already, I started a new job two weeks ago yesterday and am pleased to say that it has done well in the capacity of keeping me well enough spirits to forget about my depression. And while I've done a bang up job of keeping myself out of the headspace of being petulant and self-aggrandizing, life has a way of kicking you in the shins now and again to bring about such sour moods.

That being said, I'd like to spend a moment to talk about some stuff that's been going on at home. It's an open secret that I'm temporarily living at my parents house, a fact which I am neither proud of nor willing to talk about at length. Frankly, it's a source of embarrassment and marginal shame. While I recognize that there is nothing inherently wrong with living with ones parents at the age of 29, it is not necessarily where I pictured my life at this age. And the fact that I had to come home because my only other options were either--A) staying at my old apartment months behind on bills in the hope that a job of any kind would present itself or B) becoming homeless--coming back to Colorado broke and jobless looked like the best option (and frankly, it was; though there are days when it certainly doesn't feel true).

In any case, coming back home has been...a trial. Without speaking too much on matters that aren't necessarily mine to speak on (though after having finished Julie & Julia, I've decided that if I'm ever in the position of writing a memoir, I would most definitely include this portion of my life in the book. Sorry, not sorry.), this past weekend has incited a "Lazy, Sulky Bitch Mood" which I feel as though I am surely not going to break out of any time soon.

Having ones own space is so very important and I don't feel at home here. Crammed into a bedroom intended for toddlers, sleeping on a twin sized bed that is so wildly uncomfortable I am sure to suffer the affects for months to come, skirting around the family drama with the not-so-implicit direction from a wise sibling to "keep my fucking mouth shut". The only saving grace is being close to my Mom and Aunt, whose understanding and willingness to accommodate me (and my wacky keto diet) have been more than I likely deserve.

This entire weekend has left me wondering what the point of honesty is. It is ones obligation to be honest even when it hurts or keep quiet and avoid the aftermath? I've always been a vocal advocate for the first but is honesty worth the cost of harming a relationship? There have been more than plenty of relationships, including familial, I've walked away from because they were toxic or imbalanced or some other variation of fiercely unhealthy. At what point is it enough? Do I walk away and say "you deal with the consequences, I tried." or sit idly by, helpless to do anything.

Believe me, I know that people can only help themselves but do I not have an obligation to say "HEY, you're being a dumbass!"? Isn't the best way to love someone to practice honesty even when it's painful?

I have no answers, friends. Maybe I never will.