In life, only two things are certain, death and taxes. So the saying goes. Let me add one more certainty ( and I challenge anyone to refute this): "Positive thoughts don't work all the time." As long as you are alive, you will feel bad sometimes. It doesn't matter how many self-help books you've pored over, how many inspirational cassette tapes you've tried to listen to. Adopting "I like myself" as your mantra will fail at times. It's not that you don't like yourself but you just feel blah. Things are difficult at work. Certain people irritate you. It happens. You explode. You sulk. Having conditioned yourself to "feel not bothered" by external events and people for quite some time has taken its toll. You need to feel mad and bad.
Feeling bad is not actually bad (pardon me for being redundant) in itself. That was how I started writing in the first place. Every time I didn't feel too good during my younger days (that means I still consider myself young), I'd grab my pen and write, long-hand. There was something liberating and comforting about having ink and paper meet. In fact, I couldn't write unless I was distressed, disappointed, or angry.
Then I met my hubby. Life was busy, happy, perfect. There was nothing to complain about. I couldn't write. I was stumped. It was a case of what seemed like eternal writer's block. After awhile though, thankfully, I discovered that I could finally write about pleasant and informative things. So it was on to getting married, having Adi, and writing about whatever strikes my fancy. No longer did I write to release negative feelings. Until today. Does this mean I need another major change? Another job? Another kid? Something.
Oh well. I just need a little time. A little time to be mad and to feel bad. You know that feeling of having to release tension and stress and then you're back to normal again? That's where I am. I'll be back to thinking positive again in a few days (how can I not get back to that when I have a wonderful family life) and will be ready for the next pain. Why does this sound like I'm waiting for my next contraction during childbirth? Anyway.
You know what, I feel better already. It still works.
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The Taxman Cometh
Written on October 01, 1999
Copyright © 1999 by Angelica Bautista Viloria of http://www.viloria.com