Feeling now

I'm feeling sad right now, because i realize the impossibility of my dreams. I feel miserable, and I hate people. How can I possibly be happy? How can I live and participate in life (not even to succeed) when i hate people? I hate working with people. I hate cooperating with people. I hate being in relationships with people. I hate interacting with people. I hate communicating with people. Every which way I turn, I am threatened by people. I hate opening myself up to people, and I hate the unpredictability of people.

I don't know anything. I really suck at what i want to be good at. I feel inferior in relationship to my superior. But i need to impress him. I need to be professional. I need to show him that I'm good. I need references from him.

I can't quit, because there's nothing else i want to do, or can do for that matter. if i quit, then I'll become a housewife, have kids and inflict all my dreams and hopes and wishes on them. The ones that I have failed--the dreams and the kids.

I shall labour on forth.

Correction, this is how I feel:
I'm a student--a scholar-apprentice. Mistakes are an inherent part of learning. I am getting better and better. I possess a reservoir of knowledge that continues to grow. I'm a living breathing feeling individual. We all are, and we all understand one another. We see eye to eye.

Things are going well, because i have people who love me and who support me. Why burden myself with unnecessary burden, when i must work on necessary work.

I can do all things. I can begin all over again, if i wanted to. But i don't because i have already gone very far and i love what i do. I can restart anything anytime. I can go into any field and start again, follow and invest in any other passion, and thank jove i have many. What, it takes two years to learn professional photography? Maybe another two years of piano, I'll get an ARCT designation and teach piano for the rest of my life? I can be a professional anything else. I can do anything. begin anything anytime. Lie, cheat, steal.

My identity is not my work, and my hobbies do not threaten my work, and through it, my identity. What i consider my hobbies, what I consider my work, and who i consider my friends and family--those make me who I am. I am a multi-faceted individual, not defined by my work or my writing. So my writing can make mistakes, it can be in progress. I have many wonderful things going for me, and I am many wonderful things at once. I stand up to one mistake backed-up by the many wonderful things of my person.

My mother tells me that I am loved, that I am love.

I love my work, i love my writing, and my writing SHALL LIVE (and I do not have to die for it).

That is the mistake my mother made. She killed herself, thinking that that would be the only way for her daughters to live. She became mother, and nothing else--she lost herself.

Where is my mother? Who is my mother? Is my mother myself?