I feel stuck.
Unbelievably, undoubtably stuck – and not the weird metaphorical “I don’t know what’s next” kind of stuck, but an actual I can not move, this mattress is holding me hostage, paralyzed in my ineptitude kind of stuck.
I feel stuck, because I am lonely.
I am lonely because no one is in love with me.
No one is in love with me, but everybody loves them some me.
Everybody loves me, because I’m good at making people feel good.
I’m good at making people feel good, because I’ve had a lot of practice on myself.
A lot of practice on myself because, I spend most of my time stuck.
So I’m laying here, balls deep into the 3rd season of Grey’s Anatomy for the 17th time, because Seattle Grace Mercy West is a way better place to be than stuck.
Mom says, “You feel stuck because you are not happy.”
She then tells me that “Happiness is a choice that you have to embrace.”
I sit on that statement, for a moment and laugh.
She asks me why I’m laughing, and I tell her “I’m choosing to be happy.”
My speech has always been my strongest suit, and I wear it. Proudly.
Use my language to bend the fabric of time and space, and convince even myself that I, too can be happy.
The more I think about it, happy feels a lot more angry through cracked smiles, and hollow laughter.
An alarm goes off on my phone, and I am reminded that have plans today.
I have plans, but I do not want to go.
I mean, I do want to go, or at least I would’ve wanted to go, but this is the part where Meredith begs Derrick to “Pick Me, Chose Me, Love Me!” – and I can’t possibly miss that part again.
My therapist asks how’ve I’ve been doing – and I tell her I’m “Happy.”
She says “great,” though she doesn’t believe me as she writes me a prescription of something I can barely pronounce, and probably won’t take.
I roll my eyes, and tell her that maybe I have a tumor.
Maybe I have a tumor that’s pressing down on my brain that’s causing my anxiety – and that I should probably go get a head CT to confirm.
She tells me I’ve been watching too much Grey’s Anatomy.
My friends are always curious why I’m always so busy, when really I’ve been sitting at an empty notebook for the past six hours hoping my new play will write itself, but instead end up subjecting myself to the think pieces I post on Facebook at 3am.
“Shit I Post on Facebook at 3:00AM,” is an awesome name for a book – I think to myself as I add “Write a Book” to my scroll length to-do list of things that I’ll probably never accomplish.
I learned early how to convert lonely into anger, anger into happy, happy into stuck, and the stuck into busy – so when I tell you I’ve been really busy lately, I am really just still sitting here stuck.