Gratitude journaling is a thing

I started a gratitude journal. I’ve been told this isn’t a manly thing to do. The few who have told me that are also miserable pricks, so the process of elimination tells me that I’m making the right decision.

I started it because I’ve found myself arguing with my own brain lately, mostly about personal happiness and self-satisfaction. A lot of what I silently lament returns the same refrain: Growing up wasn’t supposed to be like this.

What was it supposed to be like?

I was supposed to be an author who made enough money to be the exception to the rule. Popular enough to please the hearts and wallets of a general audience while still having a command of craft that made grumbling academics begrudgingly accept that what I created was good enough from their perspective. 8-hour workdays only existed if I wanted them to. I’d be invited to give talks about writing and the pervasiveness of storytelling. I was supposed to have kids who went to a better school. A house with enough acreage to get lost in, yet not so big we weren’t 15 minutes from a hospital. I was supposed to be in love with my life. The only stress was the good kind.

All that shit is a 30-year-old pipe dream.

Rationally, I know I have it better than so many people. I don’t have kids, so the tax man and my 401K are my only dependents—the dogs don’t count. My home isn’t in a big-ass house on 5 acres of woodland, but I have one. It’s solidly built, enough for two people, and keeps me warm in the winter. I get paid well at a job that reasonably low stress for most of the year. My lifestyle affords me enough time to focus on creative pursuits. My body isn’t falling apart. My brain feels like it’s slowing down a bit, but I wonder if that’s because it’s not wired for the speed at which advertising moves, like younger folks’. I have no big debts except for the car and mortgage.

I have it better than most people on the planet. However, my brain doesn’t want to default to that perspective. Instead, it comes at me with “It wasn’t supposed to be like this” crap. Worse, I buy into it. “Yeah! What the fuck? It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” Once I’m done pointing fingers at the world and assigning blame, I eventually circle back to myself and decide to be depressed. Joy. My midlife crisis was supposed to be drugs, cars, and recoverable debt, not some self-imposed PSYOP directed at my existentialism.

The journaling has helped. We’ll see if it lasts. Until then:

1. I work from home and can devote my former commute time to writing.

2. I can go slightly over budget without panicking every month.

3. The Wild tied the first round of the playoffs 2-2 against Dallas. ISTFG if we don’t make it past the first round AGAIN, I will die of an embolism.

4. Today is a gray day of soaking rain and budding flowers.

I might go for a walk.