Love and Loathing in Gallifrey

I am currently experiencing a unique crisis.


I feel that popular culture is an excellent mirror inwards to yourself, or can be if done well. In particular the things you’ve left unaccomplished.

You see: When I was a teenager I wanted to become an actress. I think a lot of kids did, it’s the in thing to do. As an adult I can see that my extreme social anxiety and lack of motivation to try harder would have been great stumbling blocks. Also, I’m a rubbish actress. I could have gotten better, but my parents wanted something else for me, and well… Who doesn’t want to please their parents?  Probably quite a few teenagers. I am the real world equivalent of “failure to launch” and I feel as though I am the latest of bloomers (which sounds odd). I am married, I have two wonderful kids


But, I don’t love me.

I have been feeling a discontentment rising within myself lately. I have this continuous loop of disapproval running through my head. That I’m broken, I’m weird, I’m a freak, that I should be ashamed. I’m not sure where all the negativity comes from. My parents were good parents, they love(d, now and then) me. I am the apple of their eye, and as my dad always says, his favorite daughter. Which is really easy when I”m the only one.

I have big dreams. I keep them locked and hidden away. I want to travel, I want to make something great, I want to be great, I want people to know who I am and I just want to stand out from the crowd a little. I don’t want to be the imaginary friend anymore. Which is what I call myself at work because despite being a trainer, and the first person that everyone in my department goes through to get hired, I am easily forgotten. I am desperately lonely.

I have been watching Doctor Who lately. It inspires me to think about my goals. How awesome would it be to write for TV? How awesome would it be to have someone read what I write, Period. Having someone read what I write and like it, it’s the ultimate high, for me anyway, the mormon girl who gets sick from taking too many tylenol.
(Sukie I promised less sadsack I know, but I can’t help how I’m feeling)

A friend of mine has a friend who used to write for Doctor Who. Which is amazing. I lack the confidence to even try writing much of anything. And as sad as it is, I admire Stephenie Meyer still because even though her writing isn’t like War and Peace or anything, I admire her for carving out time in her life for herself to accomplish something. I don’t feel like I deserve it. I think If I could find out why I hate myself so much it’d be the key to everything.


I’m the person who restarts her tetris game if one piece is out of place, I trash it and start over. It’s not perfect, and so it’s useless. Maybe that’s it. I’m not perfect, so I’m useless. What a horrible train of thought. Maybe I have a hard time remembering that God Loves me still or something. Or maybe it doesn’t matter who else in the flippin’ Universe does, because If I can’t find something awesome to love about me, it doesn’t really matter who else does.

Another friend of mine recently visited. She lives in Washington, which I still find more glamorous than my life. We were going to meet up. I thought about it a lot. and I just felt like “My house isn’t clean, and I’m up like 70+lbs since she saw me last, I think I’d rather die.” which once again, isn’t a great way to think. How much of my life am I going to let pass me by because I’m not perfect? Why am I so afraid to fail. Who is going to be mad at me? I will I suppose and that’s bad enough.

When I was in high school, I had a really great friend who asked me what I was doing after high school, and I said that I’d probably get married (I had no prospects of such in sight, despite having a VERY non-serious dating relationship with a guy.) and she was disappointing me in me for not wanting more for myself.  Maybe that’s just it. I’ll live a half life. A life full of mistakes and disappointments, for not taking what I could get. I had a teacher in college who thought all of my stuff should be prose, but I’m crap at prose (was and still am) I’m better at vignette’s for the imagery. Why can’t i ask myself to do more, go outside of the box, and dig deep and give MORE.

I’m a compare-r. I compare a lot. To the people around me, the people my age. What have I done with my life?
Maybe I’m thinking about it too hard. Maybe not hard enough. I just want people to remember me.

Derringer Meryl [Help] Out

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