The Blame Game

I must admit, I’m a cheater.

I signed up for Twitter and have been “mirco-blogging” ever since, thus completely ignoring my “real” blog here.
So, back to basics. (And hopefully more updates.)

As of late, I’ve been pretty stressed out. I’m trying to find an apartment and move, planning on racing my bicycle in a week (and the bicycle isn’t done yet), trying to keep a healthy relationship with a great guy, attempting to lose weight, and overall not losing my mind in the process.

I was quite content for a month or so. I finished my physical therapy, spent weekends with the boyfriend, and work was going swimmingly (I even scored a raise!).

Suddenly, out of nowhere, I found a huge electrical bill in the roommates lap that we had to address, a broken kitchen sink (that has still gone unfixed), a bicycle race mere weeks away with no bicycle, 20 extra pounds on my frame, and an application filled out for an apt but with no lease signed, the quest must continue.

WHAT THE HELL?!

Now I have a terrible habit here as well.
When things fall apart, I blame myself.

Kitchen sink broken? Should have never moved into the place.
Bike/fitness not ready for a race? Should have never joined a racing team.
Boy probably annoyed by you? I’m pushing him away with my constant complaining.
Still have not signed a lease? I’m not looking hard enough for a place.
Quite overweight and unhappy? Should have eaten less crap and worked out more.


This extends past what is even affecting me right now.
I apply this self-hatred and self-blame to everything. Even things I have no control over.

For example, last night was a beautiful night.
Everyone was riding their bikes, walking around outside.
What did I do?
I changed the cat litter, saw three apartments with my roommate, then had a Guinness and a tuna sandwich while watching two episodes of Arrested Development.
When the boy told me he rode 40 miles, I got mad.
Not at him, at myself.
That I didn’t take the initiative to get on my bike and get that many miles in.
That I instead sat on my butt.

EVEN THOUGH I already had plans to see apartments (which is kind of important since I don’t even know where I’ll be living), I still blame myself for being a lazy, fat cow.


I mean, I guess it’s refreshing that unlike the rest of the world who blames everyone else for their problems, I completely blame myself.
Unfortunately, I tend to blame myself for things that I’m possibly not to blame for (at least partially.)

Obviously having broken bones for 2 months can cause one to gain weight (especially when those bones involve legs and arms).
But I still know that if I had just eaten less and attempted to do anything, hell, chair aerobics, that maybe I wouldn’t be at the weight I’m at now.

Or that, sometimes, landlords are dicks and won’t rent to you for some asinine reason such as the color of your skin or your age. But I still know that I could be more pushing or try harder.

Or even the fact that I never get to see the few friends that I do have. Obviously we all have lives and some of them don’t even call me back sometimes, but I still blame myself for not having MORE close friends and for myself being too busy, or perhaps lazy, to stay up late on a weekday to go out or something.


I guess it comes down to my Gemini duality.
I see how the world can affect my life, causing such drama and stress.
But my brain also sees how with a few different choices, I could have possibly avoided this stress. But I made the wrong decisions and thus, sealed my fate.

Who knows which is better.
Blaming the world for all my problems or blaming myself?

I have a feeling I’d agree and disagree with both arguments.