I have been a pessimist all my life. I was born on a Wednesday, and for those of you who aren’t aware “Wednesday’s child is full of woe.”
My MIL lovingly refers to me as Eeyore because of my glass half empty perspective.
The first movie I ever saw in the theatre was Free Willy, and I missed the ending because I was crying uncontrollably as I was certain that Willy would not make his big jump, and that he would land on the large jagged rocks and be killed.
You get the picture. Anyway, life as a pessimist means your outlook is often scrutinized closely by optimistic people. Your health is called into question because pessimism denotes negativity and negativity is something to be avoided. However, I have never been negatively affected by my pessimistic outlook. In truth, my pessimism often saves me from bad people and bad decisions. It’s not as if my attitudes or personality is indicative of mental illness.
When Jack was in the NICU fighting for breath, I believed in him and held onto hope with unwavering determination. And never, even in the darkest dreariest hours during that profoundly painful ordeal did I ever stop and think to myself “if only I could be more positive.”
Surely I am not the only one who can still be a good and happy person while also being a pessimistic, argumentative, incorrigible, bitch. Pessimism, like introversion, is often depicted as a dysfunctional personality trait. Which is completely unfair because I FUNCTION, I function my fucking ass off. I don’t listen to those high and mighty Type A personality types who sparkle sunshine out of their spray tanned asses and tell me to be more positive. I just keep doing me, day in and day out.