On the other hand, intellectually at least I know my life really isn't so bad. I have a stable, decent-paying--if not especially satisfying, creative or challenging--job; I own my own condo, which continues to appreciate in value almost obscenely; I can afford to travel, eat at nice restaurants, give to charitable causes and buy all the amenities I need and nearly all that I think I want, for myself and the people I love; I have a wonderful family and a fine pet; and I'm in an amazingly strong relationship--something I had come to believe wasn't really going to be in the cards for me--with Jeff. I'm loved by my friends and family and, I think, generally respected and appreciated by my colleagues. I really should be grateful, content and secure.
But I'm a spoiled, middle-class, white American male. I guess I just want more, dammit.
It's interesting -- and perhaps telling -- that you didn't enable commenting on that last post.
My own rising angst seems to manifest itself in anger and a sense of helplessness; my own blog entries attest to this, and sometimes I let my guard down enough to post thinly veiled peeks into my psyche and life... and obscured requests for some comment, any comment, on my life.
More often than not, none are forthcoming.
I dunno, maybe this is the way life is supposed to be, and we've been marketed to so often and so well that we actually believe that we're supposed to be happier or more accomplished or thinner or more loved. Maybe you and I and probably millions of others are actually normal.