Lepidotera: Collection and Analysis

Today, in an email to David, I confessed that, so far, I am quite embarrassed by this new blog. When I scroll through the entries, all I see is a bunch of self-pity, morose ramblings, painful wallowing and what amounts to nothing more than literary masturbation. Had I stumbled upon this page myself, I would have probably assumed that a chubby, 16 year-old goth kid with smudged eyeliner was writing it, while dripping candle wax on her pudgy arms and listening to Blood on the Dance Floor in her parents' basement, because they just, like, totally don't GET it, man.

I guess I don't often realize how unhappy I am until I read the words that I write. Perhaps that is why I finally decided to take up this silly pursuit, again. I figured it might be "therapeutic", or something. So far, it's at least prevented me from posting a series of cryptic, sad facebook status updates, a benefit for which I'm certain all of my online "friends" are deeply grateful.

Writing this has also, at the very least, allowed me to harness and contain some of the nebulous emotions and thoughts that swirl around me, and to view them in some finite, objective form, like tattered butterflies encased under glass. I suppose now it is time to ask: What are these strange specimens? Where did they come from? And what can be done about them?

First of all, it's not like I don't come by this shit honestly. A history of depression and mood disorders exists in spades on both sides of my family. (A favourite tale from the Russian side of the family recounts the marriage of my loony-tunes great-great grandmother, Luba, who, despite her obvious mental imbalance, was nevertheless wifed up by my hapless great-great grandpa because she was by far the most talented singer in their village). The many tangled roots that nourish my family tree prove that I didn't have a fighting chance at contentment to begin with. When this familial history is combined with my naturally-solemn and somewhat morbid nature, you have what is often referred to as "the perfect storm".

As of late, many external factors have also exacerbated my dysthemia. Firstly, as mentioned in a previous entry, I have had, with the exception of a few totally uncharacteristic moments throughout my life,  absolutely the worst luck in matters of the heart. This is likely to do with an acrid cocktail of my own devising, a recipe perfected through years of practice: Take two parts epic and poetic heart, (ruined forever for the cold practicality of the modern hookup culture by too many late nights, pouring over the wisteria-covered writings of Tennyson, the Brownings and of course, Poe);  add one part ill-advised interest in and susceptibility to emotionally or geographically-unavailable men who are fluent in the rhetoric of seduction; stir in a generous mixture of bitterness, borne of many failed attempts to find poetry in the hearts of the crude and uncaring; add a dash of self-esteem issues, and mmm-mmm! THAT'S the flavour of failure!

Now, many people are quick to pipe up and say, "Wait just a minute, now, Steph. THERE'S your problem. You're looking to SOMEONE ELSE to make you happy. You need to find happiness WITHIN YOURSELF, girl!" And to these well-meaning, armchair therapists, I say, "Piss right off and cut the bullshit."  

Yes, of course it would be ideal if we all loved ourselves and reveled in the ecstatic joy that was our own weird company forever, but I don't think that the wedding industry continues to boom, or that online dating sites continue to thrive, because everyone is so totally happy being by themselves. Whether driven by a desire for a fairytale ending, or merely by the need to stick a body part into another body part, we structure everything that we do around the attraction and pursuit of others. Anyone who denies that is simply denying a fundamental part of nature. Life has a desperate need to perpetuate itself, and humans are not inherently solitary creatures. I am actually a little tired of being made to feel like I am of a weaker character or constitution because I crave companionship and am not ashamed to admit that. 

While we're on the topic of finding happiness within ourselves: It's always fun to ask anyone who hands you that little nugget of wisdom exactly HOW you are supposed to go about doing this. Where does happiness exist in ourselves? Is it some sort of sub-organ, hiding just behind the pancreas or spleen? Does it show up like a freckle on your skin if you spend enough time in the sun? Any time I've ever posed this challenge to someone telling me to "look inside myself for happiness", ((and usually, it's some university-accredited therapist with a smugly-framed diploma on the wall of their office, hung next to a watercolor painting of orcas)), this expert will smile benignly, heave a small, pitying sigh, and softly say, "When you find it, you'll know. You'll just... know. Here. Pick a card out of this bowl of daily affirmations." The only thing I can affirm, after any encounter like this, is that I've just spent $150 to have some quinoa-munching crackpot tell me that they really know nothing more than anything I could have learned on Dr Phil, and are laughing all the way to the bank with my cheque.

Someone once told me, "If you change one thing, you change everything." With this in mind, I really think my doldrums as of late are the result of desperately needing a major change. And I'm not talking about switching to Diet Pepsi instead of Coke, or taking a wok cooking class. I'm thinking something huge, something that completely shakes up my routine. More and more, I've had a desire to simply pick up and leave this godforsaken tea-and-tweed town, to run away, to start again in a city that's big, vibrant, alive. I've always been so scared of drastic changes, but maybe this is why nothing is changing at all.