Get Hard

I’ve come to a conclusion about myself that is both mind shattering and unbelievable. I need to be hard on myself to be happy. All this let me live life by feeeeeeling my way through my days isn’t working. I need some structure, a high-level of discipline, and the courage to realize that I need to be hard on myself to do what needs to be done, because once I do all that, I’ll be happy. I’ve fallen into old patterns and old behaviors by losing this discipline, and frankly, it’s making me sad and depressed and I’m fed up with it. I need structure and discipline and a path to follow while I live my days. I love that I’m coming to this realization now, when I’m so close to being called out to a fire, a fire that will without a question in the world upheave my life and destroy any sense of normalcy and routine I may or may not have developed. C’est la vie, though.

For the past few weeks, I’ve been afraid to be hard on myself. I thought that by being hard on myself before contributed in some way to my burning out and thus my happiness. I don’t think that’s entirely true anymore. My most happy entries during the life of this blog have been when I’ve accomplished so much, and I wouldn’t have done any of that if I wasn’t hard on myself. I think I might be confusing “hard on myself” with something else. Holding myself accountable to my actions? Ambition? Disclipline? I’m not sure; all I know is that, regardless of how I phrase or what I really mean, I need to be hard on myself and force myself to do what I need to do.

It’s funny, but the couch I bought last week has helped me read more, just like I wanted it to. It’s freaking comfortable sitting or lying on the couch with a book or a magazine in my hands and reading. When I don’t think about comfort, I can think about what I’m reading, and what I’ve been reading has been super interesting. I mention this because a big part of my life that has been missing lately has been reading, and the more I read, when I allow myself to read that much, the more happy I am. The more I read the more I want to read the more I want to work. I haven’t worked out in about three full weeks. I know once I start working out again, the more I want to workout and the better I’ll feel. But since I haven’t been working out, the less well and happy I feel. I’m sure I’ll feel the same way about writing. I’ve been meaning to write some short stories for so long but for one reason or another, I simply haven’t.

It’s time to change all that. It’s time to pull up my big boy pants, wipe those tears from my eyes, castigate the little kid inside of me and let the man loose because I’m fucking tired of being depressed all the time. It sucks and I hate it and if work makes me happy, then I need to work because I need to be happy. The alternative sucks.