The cycle of my self-hatred is this: downward spiral into a depression that makes so me tired and irritable, I am either in bed, or thinking about how much I want to be in bed; then a small period of New Miranda time where I devise schemes to pull myself out of said depression and, you know, get my shit together and become a human I actually like; ultimate failure; rinse and repeat.
I’ve been thinking about making a motivational “New Miranda” blog/vlog for awhile now (realistically for my entire adult life), in an effort to help others by helping myself (or vice versa). A sort of real-time rags to riches story, but the rags are depression and self-loathing and the riches are functional adulthood. The problem is, New Miranda is part of the cycle and it is destined to crash and burn. Just the thought of all of that inevitable failure makes me want to crawl into bed and never get out. How many times can I write the same bullshit (“New Miranda is here! New Miranda has left the building. She’s here! She’s gone again”) before my readers abandon ship? Why do I want to write about it at all?
New Miranda is out, and now I’m trying to shift my focus from becoming a better person to just, like, being happy with who I am and with what I have now. When my house is a disaster, I tell myself that cleaning isn’t a priority for me at this current moment in time, and that a messy home isn’t an indication that I’m lazy and inadequate. I tell myself that not everyone is going to like me, and that’s okay. I tell myself no one really matters in the grand scheme of things, so if I die in mediocrity, it’s totally fine. I don’t know if that last part is helpful or not, but at least it’s true… I dunno. I recognize that I need a therapist, but I’m still not there yet.