Just when you think it’s safe to go back in the water…

You find out that you’re swimming with the same mental sharks. 

I didn’t write anything last week, because I didn’t know how to type the equivalent of vomiting blood (which is especially bad when you’re swimming with sharks).  This week wasn’t any better.

I’ve been doing this therapy thing for 4 months, and here’s what has come out–repeatedly:

I am never satisfied by what I write.  I only occasionally enjoy the writing process. No matter what I do, I don’t think I will ever get a job.  No matter what I achieve, I always feel underqualified.  I am deeply ashamed to be so old and so unaccomplished.  I was a fool to think that academia is a meritocracy.  I was a fool to think that I could have a really boring but basically satisfying middle-class life.

If I enjoyed the process enough

If I were able to survive financially

If I thought what I did mattered

But I don’t, and I can’t, and it doesn’t.

As soon as I figure out how to, I’m quitting therapy.  It’s only been further evidence that I’m a fucking sucker.