Odd how I can feel so down despite having no reason to feel that way.

Seriously, life isn’t that bad.

I’m employed and make enough money to live well. I have a loving partner who supports me. We live in a penthouse apartment with two adorable dogs.

I have the greatest group of friends you could ask for. Same goes for my family.

I’m healthy. I own a vehicle and a boat. I was fortunate to be born in a first-world country. I’m educated (even though I do and say stupid shit).

The list goes on.

But none of it matters when all I focus on is bullshit. More to the point, none of it matters when I attach my self-worth to the things I do.

And I do fuck all.

I don’t mean daily to-dos or work. I mean dreams, ambitions, goals I set for myself.

Those things I don’t do. Things I rarely start.

Those things hang over my head like an ACME anvil. And the rope frays the older I get. It’s too late for some things. Others are almost out of reach.

The self-imposed pressure builds. I can almost feel the crushing fall. Like I’m Wile E. Coyote. 

Of course, Wile E. didn’t give up. He scraped his pancaked ass off the ground and tried again. And again. And again.

So what’s my excuse?

A curse of self-awareness

I didn’t worry about my mental health until I started worrying about my mental health.

Now, that’s all I think about.

How I ruminate too often. How I focus too much on what I could be doing better. What I should be doing better.

The voice in my head shouts “You’re not working hard enough!”

The self-doubt is greater than it’s ever been.

Shouldn’t I be comfortable in my own skin by now? Shouldn’t I be confident in my abilities? (Perhaps this really is a midlife crisis…)

But where does all this mental garbage come from? When did it start piling up?

It wasn’t there in my teens. I don’t recall such potent thoughts or emotions when I was in college.

Sure, I had my share of challenges. I was a little angsty. Definitely lazy.  Still, I didn’t spiral the way I do now. 

I’m sure a therapist would link it to when my mom died. I was 26 at the time. But I don’t remember feeling bad about myself.

I got angry, that’s for sure. I managed, nonetheless. 

Then mental health took to the mainstream. At least, it seemed that way. All of a sudden, everyone was talking about it, trying to shed light on how many were battling inner darkness.

We were told to nurture ourselves. Not just our bodies. Our minds. To be kind to ourselves. And others—you don’t know what another person is dealing with.

That’s when I started taking my mental health seriously. When I started worrying about it.

It’s also when I started taking writing seriously.

A blog about Life: Under Construction

I started The Davis Daily as a way to get better at the craft. To write more often and share my words with the world (more like a handful of my family and friends, but who’s counting?). 

Surprisingly, opportunities came with it. Namely, my career as a copywriter.

It’s helped shape my thinking, too. Changed the way I view myself.

You could say it’s become a way to help me live better. Because writing helps me process my thoughts, feelings, and life experiences.

Has it made a difference? 

Yes, obviously. And no.

Constantly thinking about my well-being takes its toll, especially when I fail to meet the goals I set. Like publishing more often, freelancing, and working on my secret project.

When I fail at those things—and I’m aware of that failure and the negative impact it has—my mind turns against me.

A work in progress

I read about Stoicism and try to live the lessons. 

I try to exercise, sleep well, and do my best to let go of negative thoughts. I even quit smoking weed (on and off) and barely drink alcohol.

And, at times, I feel like I’m doing well. Until I’m not. Because there’s always something that sucks me down.

I’m not advancing in my career the way I should be. I’m not making enough money. I’m not following my dreams or doing anything meaningful.

I’m not fulfilled.

Why is this the case? Why am I my own worst enemy?

I’m still figuring that out. But I know this for sure: it’s a choice. Sometimes a conscious one. Mostly an unconscious one.

If you can wake up on the wrong side of the bed, then you can wake up on the right side, too.

You don’t have to listen to the bullshit in your head. You don’t have to give energy to your lower self. You don’t have to wallow and whine and whip yourself.

You can be thankful for all you have. For the breath in your chest. For the sun or the rain or the snow in the sky.

You can choose to be content as you are. With who you are.

You can choose to be happy.