I am so incredibly envious of other people’s lives. Without knowing much about them, I want them desperately. Without knowing much about them, I know that they are a gazillion times better than mine. I use them to pick apart my own life and regret almost every decision I have ever made. I do it because of how scared and insecure I am.
It doesn’t actually help me to compare my life to anyone else’s. I’ve known this for a long time and yet I do it all the time anyway. I read a sentence or two on Facebook and decide everyone else’s dreams are coming true (because they bravely followed their hearts) while I plod along in Survivalville, where I will undoubtedly spend the rest of my days (because I’m a neurotic failure). Somehow, I can tolerate the torture of shame and worthlessness more than I can the discomfort of fear and insecurity. I don’t know, maybe the former gives me some illusion of control that the later denies me, and that makes it more bearable.
Right now, I’d rather sit in the excruciating discomfort of uncertainty than hate myself for one minute longer. I’d rather be with the truth than the illusion, however unsettling it is. Because at least in truth, I get to be on my own side, and for at least this moment, I want that more than I want to avoid discomfort.
I’m going to sit and breathe for a few minutes, and contemplate the possibility that perhaps my life isn’t going so badly after all.