Seaweed: Complication

I have a tendency to move tirelessly into the future, leaving the past to molder on its own.  I never look at old photos or travel mementos, never watch a movie a second time, or reread a book, but I do, from time to time, read the stuff that I've written.  It's pretty interesting seeing where I was in the world, what was going on, what was occupying my mind.  I found this entry revealing and frustrating, no doubt written when I was going through one of my periodic realignments: planning on doing new things, eliminating bad habits, moving further this way or reigning in a shift that way. 

I look back over my life and I see fear and anxiety.  Worry.  A vague sense that I'm looking at a bad outcome.  Childhood.  High School.  Awful college experience, buried with work and classes and money concerns.  The Lost Years after I got booted out of Optometry College.  Chicago.  The awful CSE/OTP work debacles.  Travel and weather fears when I was relentlessly traveling in sincity.  Moving to Portland and realizing what a mistake that was.

Life is such a war with me.  I fight and fight and fight.  I never relinquish anything without a fight.  I never turn over anything until I've done every last thing that I can do on my own, all by myself, to get the result that I want.  Screw god.  I'm certain I have the power to change circumstances, people, places, and things, bend them to my liking.

Complicate:  To modify so as to make something intricate or difficult.  (Ed. Note: I like how there is no implication that the process of making something more intricate or difficult actually improves anything).

Complication:  A person who doesn't fit in with the scheme of things; an interloper.  (Ed. Note: Hah, hah, hah).

I wonder at the origin of this war I wage with peace.  What is it about me that is so resistant to calm?  I have to assume that part of it is chemical.  I have to assume - and love to assign blame elsewhere - that my parents installed some of this stuff in my.  Mom worried - Dad took anything bad and stuffed it way, way down inside until it came out explosively, in a fit of furious pique.  Some of it may be societal or the result of behaving in a certain way for so long that it becomes who you are.  The question is how much control I have over changing how I am?

Does anyone imagine that they've won the lottery?

Optimists are horrible, horrible, terrible people.