I watched a documentary in Netflix about a year ago called something like Stress: The Silent Killer. I didn’t think it was very good. But I think stress does kill you.
I was under the vague impression that stress is synonymous with success for years. It’s difficult for me to try and dissect the logic, because it makes no sense, but I’ll try.
Being stressed meant I was important
Because it meant I was trusted with such a high volume of work
That obviously nobody else could do.
Being stressed meant that I cared
Because if I didn’t care I wouldn’t get stressed about it.
Being stressed made me valuable
Being stressed, to me, was the same thing as taking action.
Being stressed was the solution to a problem
Like stress is somehow the opposite of apathy.
Being stressed meant I felt “good shame” about my failures
So people wouldn’t lose faith in me
Or think I was lazy
Stress was a way to fake self awareness.
Stress meant trying to propel my brain and body into action
Fight or flight.
This morning I was feeling stressed about yesterday, because I spent so much of it gossiping and being negative.
When you trash talk someone, even if what you’re saying is technically true, you’re always and forever afterwards, even subconsciously, awaiting the karmic payback. Dreading being found out. The fear of having someone do the same to you. Revenge.
This morning I was feeling stressed about money.
I’m going broke. Nobody wants to hire me. I don’t have any good business ideas. I’m young, and I’m stupid, and I keep making mistakes. Mistakes don’t feel like small humps to me, they feel like I’m dying.
This morning I was stressed about what I want to do with my life.
I haven’t done anything. I don’t have a college education. And I don’t think I want one. I barely made it through high school. I rarely even turned up. I’m not particularly passionate about anything, though I’m interested in lots of things.
This morning I was stressed because my house is dirty.
And I hate cleaning.
And then I decided that I don’t want to do this anymore.
That if I want to live, then I can’t do it anymore.
My life is weird right now. It’s changing. A lot. And I don’t know if it’s for the better or not. That’s what makes telling the truth so scary. Not many people do it. There aren’t many mentors or role models out there. I have no idea if I’m doing the right things or not.
But I’m going to stop stressing about it.
Because my life… Is so tiny and yet so huge. It’s everything and nothing all at once. I’m one of seven billion suspended in space where there is no such thing as up or down on a tiny planet in a tiny solar system in a tiny galaxy in the infinity of the universe.
We might be the only life out here. We might not. Either way our lives are precious and important.
Even if they are so tiny.
In 100 years we’ll all be dead, so it won’t matter anyway. That’s a little bit true. And it takes some of the pressure off.
But it’s not totally true. Because it negates the beauty of life.
I’m alive. And I’m not going to kill myself with stress. About money and houses and cars and jobs and titles and debts and gossip and fighting and guilt and shame and mistakes.
Do you know how many things have to go exactly right for life to exist on a planet? An infinite number of variables go into ensuring life. We hear a lot about how we need the sun, but did you know that every other planet in our solar system HAS to exist as it does for us to live?
There are all these planets and stars that determined whether or not I would live at all.
And I’m worried that I ate too many carbs and that my wallet is empty.
If we can be born from stardust in the infinite space of nothingness then I can find a job.
And I can find time to relax and be peaceful.
And I can decide that stress is stupid and pointless. And that it doesn’t make me important. And it doesn’t make me better.
It will kill me.
It makes me hate myself.
And how can I hate myself when an infinite number of things had to go exactly right just so I could be alive?