Further to the posting below regarding my post-vacation funk. Suddenly, as with Cher after her Rodeo Drive shopping trip in Clueless, it all became clear. This funk is not the result of some flukey drop in serotonin levels or whatever. It's very clear to me what it's about....
It's about, "What the fuck am I doing here???!!!!"
I could be living in San Diego, or Palm Springs, or Los Angeles, or Long Beach. Or San Francisco, Seattle, Portland. Or Butte, Santa Fe, Moscow, or Ho Chi Mihn City, for pete's sake. But I'm not. I'm living here at the Old Homestead in Histrionic Bucks County with my father, sleeping in my childhood bedroom.
Okay okay okay.
What the fuck am I doing here? I'm learning a trade; I'm looking after my father; I'm gardening and chopping firewood and enjoying this beautiful corner of the world.
But at the same time, my sense of self-efficacy--the sense of what I'm capable of and what life goals I can accomplish--is just turning to asparagus puree. Okay. This is not forever. But maybe I'd better start thinking in terms of getting out of here and getting on with my life.
Me and Dubya. We both went in without developing an exit strategy.