![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Balancing Act
Sep. 8th, 2003 01:12 pmAnd now it's time for another rousing rendition of "Look What I Learned in Therapy!", where we delve into my psyche and try to explain -- to myself, at least -- what's really behind certain really piss-annoying aspects of my life!
Balance and moderation; ah, the Holy fucking Grail. Not that I actually have a problem with balance in theory; hell, sometimes I even practice it. After all, I may have my mass writing marathons, but I don't have them every weekend. And yes, I work overtime, but that's balanced out in the end by being able to rest easy when I do go home, secure in the knowledge that the workload won't smother me in the morning combined with the extra money to go and really enjoy myself on the weekends. There's about a serving's worth of Ben & Jerry's in the fridge which I haven't touched for about two weeks on the basis that it'll be good to have in a real, "I need chocolate now" emergency.
A part of me says, "Stop trying to rationalise; what you're talking about is a balance of extremes". One part of me keeps rationalising, stating that a balance of extremes is still a balance. However, that's the point at which most of me capitulates. Yes, fine, I don't do balance much. Why? Because balance is no fun. Balance, if you like, is too damn easy. Balance just isn't me. I have a job and I have a hobby. Both deserve my best efforts. There's no balance involved in doing your absolute best. Yes, it's tiring. It makes me feel better. I don't care what people at the office say about me, and I'm not even all that fussed about the money (though I don't think I'd do the overtime if I wasn't getting paid something for it). Going to bed knowing that I did my best that day makes it a lot easier to get to sleep at night. It's not an excuse for working my fool self to the ground, but it's a reason. I'd rather have the physical damage, which heals, than have the knowledge that I'm half-arsing my way through life. That kind of knowledge brings back the thoughts that go, "So what are you put here for, then? Why bother being on the planet if you can't do anything worthwhile on it?"
Which brings us, not very neatly, onto Austin and my problems with some of his work ethic and worldview. My self-rightous indignation actually had nothing to do with what she said about Austin. I happen to agree with her about Austin, to a point. (Point being, if I believe that anything worth doing is doing whole-heartedly, the same goes for maintaining a friendship, and no one should just be cast aside just because they're inconvenient at times.) The issue wasn't what she said, exactly. It's how she said it, and why she said it. The whole thing was written in this terribly smug, terribly self-righteous, terribly cruel way. The tone was self-congratulatory, and it didn't need to be -- in fact, seeing as how she's never met the man and only knows how he is from his journal and my own, it had no right to be. Which brings us to the why -- she didn't write that to give me advice; she wrote it to gloat, to prove herself right and superior. Or at least, that's how it read to me. Maybe I'm wrong, but I doubt it. She did in fact admit to gloating, so I have good reason to doubt.
Overall, it's my life, and she actually has no part in it. I don't mind her reading about it -- if I minded, I'd stop keeping a public diary altogether. (Actually, no I wouldn't; she may get to me but she's not going to alter the way I live my life on the basis of her quest for schadenfreude.) I don't even mind her commenting -- after all, livejournal allows it, so why shouldn't she? What I mind, honestly, is the fact that she only comments on the bad shit that goes on. If she was a little more even-handed, I wouldn't mind. And while she makes noises about acknowledging that I am healing, she never comments about any of the good stuff or says anything encouraging. So it comes back to balance -- if she wants to be a part of things and comment on my life, it shouldn't only be about the dysfunctional shit. She's a working woman; surely she can sympathise with colleagues who won't work. She writes stories for her own pleasure; she may not like most of the fic I write, but she did like one piece and mightn't it be nice to comment on my steps towards a publication attempt? I went partying and managed not to completely wallflower or kill anyone, but she doesn't seem to care. It's only when I'm unhappy, or dysfunctional, or raving over the abnormal stuff, when she puts her oar in. And it doesn't seem fair. I'd love for her to prove me wrong about ther dependency on schadenfreude, but so far, no soap.
And the final thing I learned in therapy -- motivations. What's my motivation for writing this? Am I that desperate to get the last word? Well, it'd be nice, but I'm not counting on it; getting into these things with her is a little like fighting ... I think it's a hydra, where the heads grow back for every one you cut off? It's more because this has made me think a little about my own motivations, and what's going on in my own head, and I wanted to get it out. This has always been the way I've liked most. And that's what a journal, public or private, is all about.
Besides, life's been pretty dull today, bar the bad back (Christ, moving hurts...) and the sure signs of an impending inundation work-wise. So much for balance...
Thess
Balance and moderation; ah, the Holy fucking Grail. Not that I actually have a problem with balance in theory; hell, sometimes I even practice it. After all, I may have my mass writing marathons, but I don't have them every weekend. And yes, I work overtime, but that's balanced out in the end by being able to rest easy when I do go home, secure in the knowledge that the workload won't smother me in the morning combined with the extra money to go and really enjoy myself on the weekends. There's about a serving's worth of Ben & Jerry's in the fridge which I haven't touched for about two weeks on the basis that it'll be good to have in a real, "I need chocolate now" emergency.
A part of me says, "Stop trying to rationalise; what you're talking about is a balance of extremes". One part of me keeps rationalising, stating that a balance of extremes is still a balance. However, that's the point at which most of me capitulates. Yes, fine, I don't do balance much. Why? Because balance is no fun. Balance, if you like, is too damn easy. Balance just isn't me. I have a job and I have a hobby. Both deserve my best efforts. There's no balance involved in doing your absolute best. Yes, it's tiring. It makes me feel better. I don't care what people at the office say about me, and I'm not even all that fussed about the money (though I don't think I'd do the overtime if I wasn't getting paid something for it). Going to bed knowing that I did my best that day makes it a lot easier to get to sleep at night. It's not an excuse for working my fool self to the ground, but it's a reason. I'd rather have the physical damage, which heals, than have the knowledge that I'm half-arsing my way through life. That kind of knowledge brings back the thoughts that go, "So what are you put here for, then? Why bother being on the planet if you can't do anything worthwhile on it?"
Which brings us, not very neatly, onto Austin and my problems with some of his work ethic and worldview. My self-rightous indignation actually had nothing to do with what she said about Austin. I happen to agree with her about Austin, to a point. (Point being, if I believe that anything worth doing is doing whole-heartedly, the same goes for maintaining a friendship, and no one should just be cast aside just because they're inconvenient at times.) The issue wasn't what she said, exactly. It's how she said it, and why she said it. The whole thing was written in this terribly smug, terribly self-righteous, terribly cruel way. The tone was self-congratulatory, and it didn't need to be -- in fact, seeing as how she's never met the man and only knows how he is from his journal and my own, it had no right to be. Which brings us to the why -- she didn't write that to give me advice; she wrote it to gloat, to prove herself right and superior. Or at least, that's how it read to me. Maybe I'm wrong, but I doubt it. She did in fact admit to gloating, so I have good reason to doubt.
Overall, it's my life, and she actually has no part in it. I don't mind her reading about it -- if I minded, I'd stop keeping a public diary altogether. (Actually, no I wouldn't; she may get to me but she's not going to alter the way I live my life on the basis of her quest for schadenfreude.) I don't even mind her commenting -- after all, livejournal allows it, so why shouldn't she? What I mind, honestly, is the fact that she only comments on the bad shit that goes on. If she was a little more even-handed, I wouldn't mind. And while she makes noises about acknowledging that I am healing, she never comments about any of the good stuff or says anything encouraging. So it comes back to balance -- if she wants to be a part of things and comment on my life, it shouldn't only be about the dysfunctional shit. She's a working woman; surely she can sympathise with colleagues who won't work. She writes stories for her own pleasure; she may not like most of the fic I write, but she did like one piece and mightn't it be nice to comment on my steps towards a publication attempt? I went partying and managed not to completely wallflower or kill anyone, but she doesn't seem to care. It's only when I'm unhappy, or dysfunctional, or raving over the abnormal stuff, when she puts her oar in. And it doesn't seem fair. I'd love for her to prove me wrong about ther dependency on schadenfreude, but so far, no soap.
And the final thing I learned in therapy -- motivations. What's my motivation for writing this? Am I that desperate to get the last word? Well, it'd be nice, but I'm not counting on it; getting into these things with her is a little like fighting ... I think it's a hydra, where the heads grow back for every one you cut off? It's more because this has made me think a little about my own motivations, and what's going on in my own head, and I wanted to get it out. This has always been the way I've liked most. And that's what a journal, public or private, is all about.
Besides, life's been pretty dull today, bar the bad back (Christ, moving hurts...) and the sure signs of an impending inundation work-wise. So much for balance...
Thess
