I'm calling it. 2011 is officially my Worst Year Ever.
Definitely worse than the Adjustment Disorder of 1996. That only lasted three months, although I did consider suicide at the lowest point.
Probably worse than the Nervous Breakdown of 1998. I can't be entirely sure of that since I spent the first half of the breakdown sobbing uncontrollably while awake and the second half in a St. John's Wort induced euphoric stupor.
OK, it could be a tie.
But, if I declare this my official Worst Year Ever, I at least have the satisfaction of knowing the pressure is off, and I can enjoy all the little tortures I'm otherwise trying to ignore.
For example, severe 20 minute crying jags can count as aerobic exercise. I'm certainly getting more out of them than the Health Walker. Plus, like engaging in reverse peristalsis, after each bout I get anywhere from 10 to 40 minutes of complete calm. That's a real plus.
This could be that mid-life crisis I've feared has arrived two decades too early. Or it could be some kind of once a decade emotional catharsis. A turtle version of Pon Farr, if you will, except instead of getting laid, I get emotionally screwed for a year or so. That's not so bad if I get 9 good years to balance.
The worst part? I honestly don't have anything to complain about. For all intents and purposes, my life is pretty great. Which is why I don't get why I'm not happy about it.
I just have to accept, for the moment, if I'm not miserable, I'm not happy.
I can live with that.