House of Cards

So I was hungry, and I decided to make a sandwich. I couldn’t decide if I wanted a cheese or a peanut butter sandwich. Actually, what I wanted was a peanut butter sandwich, but because I’d had that for breakfast, and because cheese was in my fridge, and because I couldn’t think of a reason not to, a cheese sandwich became an option.

Because I couldn’t decide, and I was hungry, I made a cheese and peanut butter sandwich. And because I was bored, I turned my toaster on it’s side and toasted it. This was a mistake. I hadn’t wanted a cheese sandwich, I hadn’t wanted a toasted cheese sandwich, and I certainly hadn’t wanted a toasted cheese and peanut butter sandwich. I’d just wanted plain, untoasted, peanut butter between bread. But for some reason having all these other options made it hard to just have what I knew I wanted all along.

Then, after eating this kind of gross sandwich, I got angry at myself. There were also eggs in my fridge, why hadn’t I added one of those as well? Why not a tomato? Why not a lemon? Just because they were there, just because they were options. And my anger became anxiety. Maybe I should have had an egg sandwich instead. But I hadn’t wanted eggs, or cheese, or any of that. Just peanut butter.

Lately I’ve been finding it difficult to do things. It’s like instead of acting naturally, acting on real desire and impulse, responding to the world in real time, instead I’m constantly thinking and analysing what I should be doing, what I should be thinking, how I should be responding, staring at the options and choosing the one I hope is right. If someone tells a joke, I laugh at it, because that’s what you’re supposed to do. Sometimes I get it wrong, and then I have to backtrack, and I feel like a idiot.

I was choosing a new university subject this afternoon, and I was reading the subject descriptions, and they all sounded the same. And I just needed to choose one. But it was so stupidly maddeningly difficult. So I chose one at random and I still don’t know for sure. I’m worried it’s going to end up like peanut butter and cheese, but in this case, I have no idea what the peanut butter is. It’s like, I know what I want to do with my life, I think, but now that I’ve worked that out, getting there seems that much more unobtainable.

I don’t really know how to describe this feeling, only that I’m finding it increasingly harder to care about the things I want to care about, and instead am constantly anxious and agitated over the things that just don’t matter. It’s paralysing and it’s numbing and it’s maddening all at once. I feel like I’m trying to build a house of cards, and the cards in my hands won’t stay up. They keep on falling over, and I’m staying at still as I can to keep them from falling, but it’s no use. And I’m scared that if I’m not careful, the whole thing will fall over and the exercise would be pointless.

Except if it were a house of cards, it would be fine. But this is my life. And all the pieces I’ve been meticulously putting together for years feel precariously close to falling. And the cards in my hands feel incredibly slippery. And I don’t know what to do.

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