Jealousy

There are women out there, my age, who are more successful than me, more clever, more articulate, more lean and healthy and pretty. I, in comparison, am average, and it pisses me off so much I could cry. Perhaps it’s not the fact that I am average but the knowledge that I am average. The high achievers taunt me. Of course, I know if I were to get off my fat ass and do something I could be in a better position than I am now. Of course I know that if I ate less and exercised more I’d be thinner. I know what I have to do, but I don’t do it. I don’t know why. Instead I seethe with resentment over my boyfriend’s ex, for example. She is accomplished, published, and looks very womanly. I often think I look about 16.

It’s all self pitying nonsense. But it’s my blog, so there. And no one ever reads it anyway.

I read the blogs of others, and one lady in particular describes her day to day life with such insight, with such intelligence. Her life is so interesting. She articulates the thoughts and feeling that I have experienced, but do not have the language or ability to transfer to paper, or in this case, blog.

When the meds still worked, and I was less depressed, I didn’t care if I failed or succeeded, and I stopped comparing myself to others. Now that my brain is hungry for more serotonin, I am floored by the accomplished ladies and their eventful lives.