I hate job. Not my job – all jobs – the very concept of jobs/work. The arbitrariness of 40 hours a week, 8 hours a day. I hate that the majority of my waking hours on any given weekday are spent doing things I don’t want to do, things I don’t really care about for people I don’t really like. I wish I had some noble other thing I want to be doing instead, but I don’t. Right now I am in a down phase and wish I could just spend those 8 hours lying in bed staring at the ceiling. I guess I really wish that I weren’t so depressed as to want to just lie in bed and do nothing, but let’s not get carried away. I’m bored a lot at work, which is frustrating, but I certainly don’t want more work to do either.

I’m bored at home too sometimes. I feel bad because I want to be alone. To isolate. But I know what I should want is to spend time with my son and my wife. Sometimes – on good days – I do. But today I just want to go to bed or stare blankly at the TV.

I wish I had it in me to write more. I’ve been wanting to write a novel for years, but it never seems to go anywhere. I feel so stupid doing it. I feel stupid doing a lot of things. I feel like a fraud a lot. I spent most of the day at work today not really working but one of supervisors keeps saying how sorry he is for “dumping” work on me today and how valuable I am and how good and I just want to scream. What a joke. I know he’s just trying to be nice or let me know I’m appreciated but instead it makes me feel like shit for not doing more or working harder.

I should be happy and grateful to have my job. For a 9-5 office job, my schedule is actually pretty flexible. The pay is decent.

I feel so void right now – so empty. I’m looking at a picture of my son’s smiling face, and I know I should feel joy, but instead I feel nothing. It’s not like this all the time. I’m not inhuman. I’m not a monster.

I think that’s part of the problem – the fact that it’s not like this all the time. I have times of normalcy, and I know what it is to feel joy and gratitude and so damn lucky. So it makes me feel guilty that I don’t feel it now.

And it makes me want to disappear. To run away. To go away. It’s not necessarily that I want to die. I just don’t want to be. I don’t want others to see me. I don’t want to continue to disappoint. I don’t want to be a burden.

This is the real me. I’m a lot less likable now, huh?