Pressed Into Oblivion

I must have been very young when the concept of responsibility was impressed upon me.  Perhaps I was too young to assimilate it in a healthy way.  Perhaps the Catholic dogmatic interpretation of the concept was so strong, its burning in left indelible scars on my psyche. 

Whatever the scenario, I only know that my life evolved into a six decade struggle between “have to” and “want to.”

I’m just not happy if I’m not doing something I think I’m supposed to be doing.  But neither am I content if I am so occupied. 

The guilt-logged Catholic in me cannot be quieted unless I’m involved in a “project” of some import, impact, or duty.  Conversely, the ever-rebellious counter-culture hippy who grabbed the torch from the dutiful little uniformed school girl is never content unless I’m spitting in the eye of the respected and expected, flipping it off and doing exactly what I want to do.

Over the years, those two battling sets of motivation have become so entangled and enmeshed that I, finally, find myself all but paralyzed.  I can’t be happy doing anything.  I can no longer distinguish between what is “have  to” and what is “want to;”  and even when I do, one half of me works overtime to sabotage my satisfaction with the effort. 

This dichotomy has been particularly damaging during the past several months—the months since the November election.  The weight of all the troubling crap that is going on in the country, and in the world, lies on me like a lead blanket.  And my warring selves will not allow me to pick up anything strong enough to lever that weight off my soul. 

I can find no freedom, no lightness, no distraction. 

I’m just…suffocating.