Inside Jane's head: the weekly peek into my psyche

I think about Chris, the Chris in my office, all the time. We've been friends on and off for a year or two, and he literally fascinates me. I think he's about 27 or 28. He was a radio producer and then came to work in the City to make more money. Now he produces music in his spare time and socialises. He owns a fast car, some sort of Mazda I think. It's black and, I believe, capable of 180 mph. Or maybe it can go faster than that, but that's as fast as he's gone in it. I don't know. It makes him happy. And this is the thing. Chris knows exactly what makes him happy, and, vitally, those things are attainable for him. He likes: his friend group (already attained), getting drunk on Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays (easily done), girls (never has any problems), going to Glastonbury (easy), and his car (attained). He has struggles, of course. His dad nearly died last year, which shook up Chris a lot, but now he starts every day being grateful that he can even stand up without assistance, and he spends the remaining hours counting down to the next time he can go out with his friends and get drunk. He never seems to get bored of the pattern, never seems to want more than he has, or certainly not more than is achievable for him. He wants his own life.

I want his life too. My head is nothing like Chris'. His head is so simple, with a few clear functions and no clutter, like an airport departure lounge. I am embroiled in an existential crisis and my head is a frenzy, no clear ideas about what is happening, where it's going, or faith that it can achieve what it should, like a squat. I need some sort of interior head designer to turn my squat into a departure lounge. I want to live in The Terminal, but with a better script.

I believe there is no overarching meaning to life, and that everything ends when we die: there is no afterlife, there is no reincarnation, there are no souls. All humans need a sense of purpose to function, so we set ourselves goal after goal, until we die. I believe that death is life's vital ingredient, the border that gives the garden definition (you'll like that, TB). I do not fear it, but I don't want it to happen just yet. I believe that life is a gift, and, like anyone else, ideally I'd enjoy what's left of it.

To be at peace, I think humans need a purpose. I want to enjoy myself, but that is impossible without peace. I believe that helping others or spending one's working hours doing something rewarding, providing a service that benefits others, is a good way to feel purposeful. My boss needs me, but I do not feel stretched. However, I struggle to think of a job that would suit my needs better - certainly any job that I could get would involve taking a fairly big pay cut, which is a scary prospect with a large mortgage in these times of economic uncertainty. And besides, I don't want my job to define me. I don't think jobs are that important. So I stay where I am and focus on the positives.

And yet I am lonely. My friends cannot give me the attention I crave. I want all-encompassing love and recognition from a higher place. I am such a perfect candidate for evangelical Christianity it is gobsmacking that I manage to remain such a devout atheist. But my persistence in searching for the next goal, the next person to convert, is tragic. I am not enough. I must always be proving myself. It is exhausting and fruitless, and yet, to stop would be terrifying. To say, "Here is good. Right now. This is what I want." The thought makes me want to cry. It feels like failing, which is ironic since believing that now is alright would be to have found peace at last.

And yet, not so long ago, I thought I had it. At the beginning of this year, I felt amazing. I had accepted that this was all there is, and I had (I believed) come to terms with it. I felt free and ecstatic. Yet now, five or so weeks later, I'm battling with it all again. So what changed? I'll tell you what happened: I was rejected and it wobbled me. The boyban is still intact (apart from one 20 min incident that we'll gloss over), but there was a frisson with someone, and then it turned out to be nothing more than that. And I crashed.

I talked about it a lot in therapy. Why do I keep going for guys who reject me? Why do I always criticise the boys who love me? And eventually, last week, I said it: I cannot respect anyone who doesn't reject me.

My therapist repeated it back to me, slowly. (This is what I pay her to do). You cannot respect anyone who doesn't reject you, she said. I thought about it, and nodded.

And, of course, this makes it impossible for me to love anyone who doesn't treat me like shit at least some of the time. Faithful, this was not a happy realisation. I felt left out as a child, and so now I don't feel comfortable unless I'm still being excluded, unless I still have to jump through hoops to get someone's attention. If you give me all your attention, you're obviously a loser and not worthy of my time or respect.

So I idolise people who go hot and cold on me, and I fancy boys who can't commit. It all makes sense. But it sure as hell doesn't paint my future in a rosy light. How the heck do I stop doing this? How do I start fancying the good guys, the ones who will love me outright? How do I hear them say, "I love you," and not automatically think, "Well, then you are clearly a moron. Please leave."? I suppose just being aware of this propensity is a good start. And, let's face it, I am so far from being able to break the boyban that it really isn't a problem right now. But the fact is: I am a bit of a mess. I have no clear purpose in life, love is all I want, yet loving someone who loves me seems like a dialectical impossibility. I feel like a really thick dog chasing its tail. HOORAY!

In happier news, I am looking thin and two people this year have thought I was IN MY MID-TWENTIES. That is brilliant. Totally superficial, but brilliant.