I have always been a self-proclaimed realist. Don't put me in the pessimist catergorgy because no one likes a complainer. Or with the optamists. Too much unhappiness in the world to be sporting rose-colored glasses and wisteling pollyanna.
That's me. Content with ritualistic realism. And I've gotten along fine. Experiencing normal thoughts and feelings of a teenager: idealistic and depressed. Young adult: questioning life, on my search for passion (and that hunk to marry). And a being a normal mother, carrying the weight of balancing self and children, health and household, and fitting in a time for husband and happiness.
Normal, right? Yeah.
Auto-pilot? Yeah, you becha.
Yet, somethings not quite right here...I'm...I'm missing something. Some vitaility...vibrancy, substance?
Whoa, how can I say that? I've been doing the things I should be doing-the formula for sucess for the here and hereafter. I mean, I SHOULD be happy, right? Right! RIGHT!
And...wrong.
But why? Why shouldn't I be completely happy and experience real joy. I'm doing all that I know in my power to do. Ok, maybe I tend to lean towards the pessimistic side. Maybe. I'll admit that much. If reality IS negetive, then I'm calling a spade a spade and therefore, I am still a realist. Ahh, I feel much better.
Could it be that I am secretly, sub-coonciously, really, a pessamist?
That has been me most of my life. Couple that with the fact that my families history is peppered with mental disorders and there was bound to be some problems.
Let's just say my body's