On dissatisfaction.

I'm unhappy.

I'm dissatisfied, disengaged, and irritable.  I'm alternating wildly between shying away from contact and reaching out blindly.  I don't know what to say half the time and yet I keep fucking opening my mouth.

It's really pissing me off.  I just shook off two or three years of crushing depression.  My father.  A failed business, a failed marriage.  I've stabilized a financial free-fall with a job I actually enjoy with people I actually like.

So why can't I just be fucking happy?  Why can't I find contentment in a simple life of TV and video games and cats and cooking, punctuated by an honest day's work?  Why can't I just look back at that dark place and be relieved that I'm not there anymore?

But no.  It's at the corners of my mind, the edges of my ears.  It makes me scowl when I'm alone.  I see it in the clippings next to my razor on my sink, in the grease on my stove.  I hear it in every step between my kitchen and my couch.

A friend said to me this weekend that when we dig ourselves out of our holes, when we switch ourselves back on and rejoin the human race, it can be too much.  We start to feel things we haven't felt in too long and it hurts to do it again.  We love like we're shitty at it, we want like we're hung over.

I want.  I can feel it.  I don't know what I want, where to find it, how to find out what the fuck it is.  But it's driving me fucking crazy, this nameless, pointless need.

I guess I'll hope for what I usually hope for.  That I figure something out before I do something stupid.

I'm not holding my breath.