The Sky is Falling (disclaimer: unnecessary self-pitying to follow)

I've struggled to find happiness, contentment, and fulfillment since childhood. Thus far, it's been fleeting. I've changed my surroundings, my medications, my beliefs, my routine, my goals, and yet I always end up with this vague...or not so vague depressed sense of hopelessness and futility.

I know that the only true source of peace available to me comes from within. Challenges and victories will enter and exit my life, alternately elevating and lowering my mood and my general sense of well-being. But underneath all the surface stuff that happens, somewhere deep inside, all is calm and well. Intellectually, I know and believe this to be true, but I'm having great difficulty actually living it.

I'm really fucking sick of being unhappy. And I'm sure all of you are really fucking sick of me bitching. An intelligent, attractive enough, middle-class white American whining about her piddly non-problems in the face of serious world issues.

Wah, wah, shut the hell up.

I thought coming to St. Thomas would solve all this. Such strong forces pulled me here. I thought to create a life less ordinary. I thought to force a mental and spiritual breakthrough. But now I just miss the comforts of my old frozen home. The Current, First Ave, trash collection, a decent salary and health benefits, Trader Joe's, Motley, among other such things and people...

I call this Woody Allen Disorder, or The Grass is Always Greener Syndrome (I thought I penned this term, but after googling it, apparently I did not). There's an actual scientific-sounding word for this that I've just spent the last thirty minutes trying to look up. Woody Allen refers to it in Wild Man Blues. He says that when he's in NYC, he always wants to be in Europe, and when he's in Europe, he always wants to be in NYC. If anyone knows the word he uses to describe this, please let me know. I think it either starts with an "A" or an "M", and if my computer time wasn't limited, I would still be looking for it. (Okay, I found it. Anhedonia, which actually means the inability to experience pleasure...not exactly accurate to what I'm describing, but close enough.)

Why is my computer time limited, you may ask? Well, because I spilled a minute amount of water in the general direction of my new laptop on Tuesday morning and now the hard drive is gone. I have grown exceedingly attached to my laptop in the last two months. It's my connection to the world. To the music and people I love. (Um, not in that order.) I'm an information addict! I need constant Internet access! So, I have to send my computer to Toshiba where hopefully they'll replace my hard drive for free, but maybe they will tell me there is water damage and, thus, I'll need to pay for it with money that I don't have.

Also, the last chapter and a half of my book will need to be rewritten because I am irresponsible and neglected to save it to my jump drive. *Sigh* It will be interesting and hopefully not too maddening a process.

I thought I would have to stop writing until the computer is fixed, thereby eliminating one of my major sources of joy. But I've decided that I'll just write by hand in a notebook. Tolkein and Hemingway penned masterpieces on little scraps of paper in the midst of flying bullets on the battlefield, so I think I can manage writing longhand in a composition notebook for a couple weeks.

I will have plenty of time to do this, considering that both Mom and Mike will be gone for the next week. It will be interesting to spend a week alone on this island. Luckily, I have to work every day this week, so the amount of time I can spend in an empty house crying and feeling sorry for myself will be limited. I am grateful to have made one girlfriend to hang out with as well. Mom probably won't be back until December after her surgery and recovery period. I'm thrilled that she's going to be okay (although I never really thought otherwise for some reason). But, I'm actually not convinced she'll ever return. Can you say "ironic"?

So, because of all this wah wah nonsense, Mike has given me another nickname. The poor guy didn't realize what he was getting into with me. Another crazy skinny bitch to add to his list of girlfriends. (His bff claims that this seems to be his type. Ha.) I did, however, offer plenty of disclaimers about my lack of mental stability and tendency toward moodiness. He chose to ignore them or not believe me, I guess. So anyway, he has started to call me Chicken Little.

I don't think it's wholly inaccurate. In fact, I'd say that he's come up with a good one.

At least it's in keeping with the chicken theme.