Sadness Totem

Posted: April 23, 2016 in hidden admonishment

I’m a realist.

Scratch that.  I’m a nihilist, but I tend to keep it to myself.  I don’t look down on the people closest to me who believe in God, and I don’t have any interest in expressing or defending my differing views.

I wholeheartedly don’t care.

Straying from spiritual beliefs, I’m not even a strong advocate for the soft sciences, but admitting such a stance renders a heavily inked stamp on the forehead that I’m ignorant.

Probably.  I don’t recall claiming to be a humanist.  At least I’m not the shade of ignorant that denies history; the arithmetic of social science.

Regardless, I still think about you.  My mind still turns to memories of you while I sleep, and my waking mind clings.

After all this fucking time, I still miss you and wish that I had done things differently to keep you in my life in whatever small roll you were willing to take. I suppose it’s a harbored regret of mine…the time I wasted. I’ve come to view you as my sadness totem.

Not you.

Remembering how I felt about you, and acknowledging that it still hurts me to openly love my memories. To still mistake it for loving you. I want to proclaim that I still love you, but I know it’s not true. I have no idea who you are now. I had very little real idea then. I know that I still wish the best for you; that real you who exists entirely separate from the encapsulation of my warped perceptions of you.

I can still say I miss your presence in my life, even if I can’t say I love you.

It used to disorient me; this deep, hopeless desire to do things differently…to change what’s already done and gone…to keep what I can’t have. Never had.

Never had.

I would wake up in the past, but my mind is wired to be so fucking practical that it would never let me stay. No. I have real obligations that drag me back to the present and my own reality, but in the beginning when the past wasn’t so distant…I spent hours awake in a time and place that wasn’t real.

I was very, very sick…but only in retrospect.

I used to have to fight with myself to reestablish reality. I don’t really know how to explain it. I would go to sleep and wake up reset to the wrong place and time or something would set me off…a smell or a series of sounds…or a specific temperature on the breeze. It was kind of like that moment we’ve all had when we’re so used to going to sleep in our own bed and then happen to wake up somewhere else like a friend’s house or a hotel and it takes a second or two to remember and reorient ourselves…but I would sit in that moment much longer, and I knew where I was because I’d been there before and still desperately wanted to be there.

Over and over.

It wasn’t always the same moment where my mind would reset, but it was always related to you. Even when my rational thoughts would set to work and bring me back…I had access to where my mind had just been, and I wanted to stay, but instead of feeling like I was living it, it was stale and stagnant and separate again like standard memories are.

A huge part of me wanted to be sick

and stay sick

and the process of coming out of it was so fucking immensely crushing every time. There were days I couldn’t work. I remember one day I called out, and my boss asked me if everything was all right. He thought someone in my family had died. There were days I cried through work. There were days I’d drive three hundred miles away and snap back into the present moment freezing cold sitting in the dark at a gravel pullout staring at a river I’d never seen before…and I’d just…find my way back to where ever I happened to be living at the time.

What else was I going to do? I accepted the moments my mind offered as reality, but they oscillated and conflicted.

I kept you. I kept you in my life for a long time, and you let me. Not the way I wanted, but you were there.

I have no idea what you saw from the clear side of me losing my fucking mind. I know I shared it. I know I did, because I bound you up on both sides and blurred that line…and you seemed so frustrated with me. You cut our interactions down to nothing.

You hung up on me.

That’s when I knew, the night I couldn’t even talk, but I called…and you were really there, and then just as quickly registered as upset, angry and…gone.

Letting you go has been the hardest thing I’ve ever tried to do. I don’t want to bother you. The real you. I don’t want to dwell in delusions that distort and replace you. I don’t want to forget the brief and simple memories I have from a long fucking time ago relating to a shared moment in the past with you.

I’m sorry.

When Dennis drunkenly said you seemed like a cool dude one night while we were all painting color fields in the painting studio, something sad and lost in me blipped from my mind and displaced onto you.

The Common Cold

Posted: February 24, 2016 in hidden admonishment

I sleep a lot and want to be left alone, but I’m an adult with legitimate obligations both at work and at home.
I neglect what I can, so the dishes and the laundry pile up, and I live in a house without heat.

I still feed the dog, and the dragon, and the bird, and sometimes the boy
but most of the time, I just want to be left alone.

Maybe part of it is that I dropped the job where I could just put my head down and work alone all day
but if I’m honest with myself, I haven’t had that job for years
because training others doesn’t allow for that level of solitude
and I’ve been fucking training others to do shit I really don’t care much about for…

five years.

At least I’m being paid better for my managerial tasks now, and I don’t have to deal with my former boss anymore.

It’s not really any singular thing that’s causing me problems.
It’s not even the conglomeration of all my problems that’s fucking me up.

It would help to have better support, but honestly…I don’t know what to ask for in that regard.
Distractions are nice
until they’re not.

I moved to be alone.
I like being alone.

Happy Birthday, Mom. Sorry your day always hits on the lowest point in my brain disease cycle.

2016

Posted: January 30, 2016 in hidden admonishment

In below freezing conditions, I hauled an old 50 gallon aquarium out onto my front stoop and started to apply a thick coat of paint stripper to the outside of the glass.  The dog stayed in my periphery, and when she wandered off a little too far, I gave a whistle.

I eavesdropped on the neighbors talking about the Carolina Panthers, and I couldn’t have cared less.  At least it wasn’t another drug transaction.  The hub for that burned to the ground a few weeks ago.  There’s no admitting it to my coworkers, but I’m fucking glad that hipster shit hole now sits vacant and condemned.

I took a break, because I couldn’t feel my toes, got myself off a few times and went back to work scraping paint.

Last year was probably one of the hardest years for me.

I felt like I made one of the biggest career mistakes ever, because I absolutely hated my new boss.  I still fucking hate her, but she’s gone now…and I’m the boss.  I make a significant amount more than I did, or still would, if I hadn’t made the change, and I was already doing the job before the bitch left anyway, so…not much of a change.  I can deal with being middle management.  It enabled me to finally quit my safety net job, which gives me much relished time to scrape paint off of fish tanks.

I’m not going to complain about how shitty a lot of mundane things are, because I finally don’t have to work two jobs that I hated with every fiber of my being…and I like having a dog.

Don’t fuck me over, 2016.

Fuck 2015

Posted: December 30, 2015 in hidden admonishment

I know it’s not your fault that some fucking kid backed into you and filed a hit and run claim against you that took half the year and several grand to dismiss.  I’m the one who was rude to the cop who harassed me out of his jurisdiction.  I demanded the lawyer.  I made you go to court.  You wouldn’t have even been there if I hadn’t asked you to fix the P-trap on the sink.

I know it’s not your fault that a month later, you were run down on our street with five witnesses, none of which had the sense to get a plate number.  It cost $8000 with your insurance.  You lost a month of work, opted not to have surgery, and you’re still not even close to 100%.  I had to keep my second job for a year longer than I wanted to have to work it.  I’m still dealing with the hospital payment plans, and I fucking hate dealing with the bills.  I know you give me money, but I fucking hate it.

It’s not your fault I’m still paying on back taxes from the past two years and will have to pay the shared responsibility tax this year for making this a legal decision instead of a personal choice.  I proposed to you.  I don’t have insurance.  I don’t make as much as you.  I filled out the W-4s and 1040s.  I fucking hate paperwork and money.

It’s not your fault our house is being held together by black mold, or that the cockroaches from next door are trying to get a foothold here after the drug addled commune got evicted.  Neither of us wants to live here, and I don’t care if you want to drink that reality away.  Just fucking keep it at home.

It is your fault my crayfish is dead, so fuck you for that one.  That was undeniably, pointlessly, and completely your fucking fault.

I’ll only apologize for my parasomnias and the corresponding scar on your back, but I don’t know how to control that shit.

Promoted

Posted: December 11, 2015 in hidden admonishment

My everyday life is a pain in the ass, but I’ve finally exceeded the pay rate I left behind when I moved.

This means I can quit my second job and piece together my neglected personal life.

I no longer have to eat shit every morning, because I’m the boss.  There is already significantly less anger and frustration to displace.  It has been a very long year spent waiting for this opportunity.

A very long year.

I find it irritating that you sneak back into my thoughts as I try to refocus. 

Burn in hell

Posted: November 18, 2015 in otiose
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Burn in hell.  I wish I believed in hell so I could hope for you to spend eternity burning.  Instead, I hope you die a slow, miserable, cancerous death.  Thanks, boss.  I have 12 more days eating your shit and I only work with you 5 too many.  Do your worst…provided you aren’t already.

Dog

Posted: April 17, 2015 in transliteration
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“So, what are we going to do if we get evicted?”

Who the fuck cares?  At this point they’re lucky I don’t burn it down out of spite.

My body has started to object to how much physical labor I demand from it daily, and I wish you dead every day.  Just fucking die.

The nights would not be complete without sirens.  It’s such a prominent part of the neighborhood that I can easily tune it out along with the sound of shots fired, and the low musical rumble of car audio base.  At some point having bullet holes–both incoming and outgoing–pepper the walls just becomes part of the decor.

I exaggerate.  There are only four bullet holes, and I screamed when they dropped in.

Sometimes, nice people just need more specific directions to the drug den across the street, three houses to the east, or in the west corner lot next door…depending on demeanor.  That’s fine, but get the fuck off my stoop and be on your way.

Please, don’t loiter in my backyard.  Cut through, but keep moving.  Despite what the fast food fucks sharing the lot line want you to think, this isn’t part of their thoroughfare either.

If getting a dog gets us evicted, when the neighbors can ram their car into our wall without consequence, I’m fine with that.

Believe is or not, my student loan debt isn’t going to dictate my surroundings forever, and an eviction from this wouldn’t fuck up my permanent record enough for me to give a shit.

Now…you said something about a dog?