I found myself doing something I often do when things aren’t peachy: lamenting.
Lamenting? you say, who laments?
Although I try to deny this fact, I am a dramatic*. My mom likes to incriminate me with “throwing myself on the floor” when I don’t get my way. I choose not to comment on that. Take, for instance, how I write a post: I have to cut so much out to keep them centered on one point. I go into passionate detail on absolutely everything. (I am desperately trying to hold back more descriptions of my dramatics; so much so, that I might just have to dedicate another post to how having a friend like me makes your life EXCELLENT.)
Thus, when I have a mental block, a social complaint, a worry, lame goings-on, general disappointment in my performance in something, stress, or the like, I lament. My personal journal is a notebook full of lament. Lamenting makes for the best journaling because good lives don’t make good stories (and I like to write stories). It’s hard to journal when I’m happy or excited because it feels like I will ruin those good moments of my life when I make them concrete in my own scribbled terms, so I note them quickly and move on to the “darker” aspects of life.
But lamenting has a downside: it breeds more lament, and promotes complacency. I noticed that yesterday night, while lamenting about being a generally cumbersome person. (By “cumbersome,” I don’t mean literally a gangly being that is bulky and bad on her feet, prone to stumbling and tumbling; I mean someone who is very “conditional,” that everything is quite specific and not carefree.) I went on for three pages about things I wanted to change, right before I was about to go to sleep. So absolutely nothing came of it because I didn’t set myself up to be able to change anything.
I was lamenting because I wanted to be a simpler person, and revise all those conditions that follow me around. At the same time, though, I didn’t want to sacrifice any of my little idiosyncrasies. It hit me, though, in a pseudo-dramatic fashion, that it’s not that I want to be simpler, or that I should rethink my quirks, it’s that I’m wary of my natural tendency to be more complex or layered.
The heart of my problem is that I haven’t yet embraced my tendency to enjoy, learn, practice, ponder and discuss a LOT of stuff. It’s not wrong to master one thing or jump around like me – both of those tendencies are a-ok; it’s just wrong to think that I’m doing something wrong when I do what I do.
So, I want to feel positive that I am a complex individual, not like I am cumbersome. And I want to feel that strong confidence and solidity in what I’m doing that is conviction. So I will be banning this lamenting business. All I am doing is breeding more worry that I’m doing something wrong by being multifaceted. And, in turn, I am creating more sources of regret when I hold back in situations to avoid being more cumbersome. In fact, I have most likely made up the fact that I am being cumbersome!
Instead of being passionately worried about how cumbersome I’m being, I could try being:
flamboyantly in love with the music I’m playing
ecstatically pleased with all the British TV I’m watching
violently moved to punch myself in the face every minute I am not rewatching Silver Linings Playbook
decidedly wild about a new food I cooked or baked.
Those sound a lot more fun than being dramatically down in the dumps, don’t they?