I woke up in a pissy mood. Didn’t have any interest in reading, or journaling about, anything uplifting. Didn’t want to watch my favorite morning news or hear nationwide Coronavirus death counts or stories of hatefulness directed toward teachers and school board members. I was angry at everyone in Washington, D.C. and wondering if there might be an adult who would step up and save us. I wanted to sit down and write an eloquent New York Times editorial where I call out bad actors, place everything into historical perspective, and conclude with a rousing call to action like Jon Meacham, George Will, or Stacey Abrams would do. But, this is simply not my lane.
It’s times like these I lose faith in mankind. And then I dig up a bunch of doubt about my own adulting and parenting, and start to question things like whether anything really matters or if I have any friends. I wonder if visualization and positive thinking ever accomplish anything, or if spirituality is even real. I told BF this morning, “I hate everything and everybody but you, and you’re on the fence.”
I word vomited in my journal–nothing I’d share. And then I took a walk around the neighborhood, showered, and kind of fixed my hair. It made me feel a little better. Almost enough that I could sit down and write something positive, which I believe is my lane. But if I did so, without admitting what I experienced earlier, I’d be less than authentic.
So, here it is. I do believe in positivity and spirituality and the fundamental goodness of humankind. I have deep convictions about kindness and spreading joy. But sometimes, I steep in grave disappointment regarding public discourse and politics and attitudes and what I’m accomplishing and what I ate, or how many steps I’ve logged. Or the dream I had or a movie I watched. Or the weather. I feel the feelings. I cuss and rant. Because I woke up in an authentically pissy mood.