I haven’t written in weeks. Why? Because I don’t like what I’m writing about. What I’m writing isn’t bad or poor prose necessarily, but rather I’m writing about my life and my mind, and those are not very inspirational to me right now. I still cry about Hilary daily, at least the once, sometimes it’s hours. I still haven’t found a job, even though several résumé have been submitted. None of the projects which I am a part of bring any resources to the home and actually demand time that I ought to be spending with Ivy, or at least taking care of the zero income problem. I have eaten horribly, smoked too many cigarettes, cannot get my early morning schedule back on track, and grad school is a complete bust for another twenty months, as a letter of recommendation writer has gone AWOL. One of my best friends, and certainly my most loyal, of twenty years passed away a few weeks ago at the tender age of 47 (working on a blog piece to talk about this, but I can only get a few hundred words at a time out before having to stop).
Why haven’t I written much? Because I don’t like what I have to write about and am not inspired by my daily sad-person-wearing-a-smile-and-a-laugh-so-that-maybe-somebody-will-kick-me-down-some-buds-or-a-twenty mask. I’ve met some nice folks, some sweet folks, and they seem to be doing well or not. I am happy for them, or not. I have conversed with my friends and loved ones, things are growing and failing in their worlds too.
Why haven’t I written much? Because right now, I feel like life is pointless and luck is for those who already have it.
Now before any of you start sending me “chin up” and “stay strong” messages and comments, realize the only reason I am here at the keyboard this morning is because that is already true, and in truth, that shit just irritates me. I never say those platitudinous things to people because it insults the effort they are making to communicate in the first place. Even if they are quivering hot messes, they have shown a certain amount of fortitude by maintaining existence, so I choose not to diminish their efforts by telling them to “keep at it.” I’m getting pissed just thinking about the arrogance it must take to say that kind of shit to people. Of course, the trouble is that folks don’t know they are being arrogant when they say things like that. They just want to help, but I wish folks who say those kinds of things would stop before they do, remembering what it is like when they could barely pick themselves up off the floor. And how they still went to work, still made the kids lunch, still helped a sick person, still gave a massage to their spouse—still kept going. They did all this without a fucking coach standing behind them saying, “come on, stay with it.”
No shit. Like I’ve got a fuckin’ choice.
I am not a suicide candidate, which is maybe more the worse. Sure it is bad to think about killing yourself. Yet, I would argue that comprehension you will live every lovely, agonizing moment of your “stupid little life” is far scarier and will end up being far more painful and shameful than any moment of death this reality has to offer.
If you really hate yourself you’ll try to live to be a hundred and fifty, feeling every second of it. Another two to five few decades would suite me, as I don’t hate things anymore.