Frustration, that systemic discontent with my life, is a vague thing. Rarely can I identify the source of my frustration, and when I can, it’s trivial: it’s too noisy to get anything done, I don’t have enough time to get started on that, I have too many things on today’s to-do list, I don’t think I get enough credit for what I do. That’s an embarrassing but accurate list of the imagined sources of my frustration. More often, however, I just know that life is not going the way I would like for it to go, even though I cannot often identify how I want it to go.
Intense sadness is usually attached to an identifiable loss. Intense anger has a focus of indignation. Frustration lacks any real focus. It is a more vague and free-floating discontent that seems real enough, but is rarely attached to anything I can identify.
Despite that, I get very attached to my frustration. I talk about it, I nurture it, I carry it with me like a favorite stuffed animal. I’m glad to talk about it with anyone who asks how I’m doing. Inflicting my frustration on others provides me with the illusion that I am being thwarted in something very important. After all, if it weren’t important I would not be this miserable.
However, it is in the vagueness and in the circular, miserable logic that I can begin to see my frustration for what it is, if I am willing.
More to come.
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