Saturday, July 8, 2017

I miss you, you stupid shithead.  This annoys me to no end.

Wednesday, January 13, 2016

Happy birthday, Dad

You would have been sixty years old yesterday, but you didn't make it that far.  I thought a lot about what to say, and what my feelings are.  I do miss you, having you there to talk to if I need you.  But I don't miss worrying about you and what you might be doing to Mom at any given time.  I anticipated that phone call for years.  When it finally came, it was met with relief that the fight was over.  You died in your sleep.  Not a bad way to go. 

I wish you'd been in less pain.  Physical and mental and emotional.  You had a crappy childhood and made it as an adult in the best way you could for as long as you could.  And then you gave up, it seems.  We had that meeting at Jen's house where we agreed you were trying to drink yourself to death and there was nothing we could do about it.  Life had gotten to you - too many peoples' problems you felt you couldn't fix or handle anymore.  You didn't want to play anymore.  I can relate to that.  But still.  I wish it hadn't played out as it did. 

I wish Mom would stop telling me she wants to die.  It hurts so much.  I feel like she doesn't think we're worth living for.  I hated her as a teenager when she said it.  "Only the cat loves me, and it's taking all of my willpower not to take this entire bottle of pills."  As an adult, I understand better. She can't see beyond her pain.  But dear God, no one wants to hear that your mom wanted to die when she was pregnant with you.  Unwanted from the first to the last. 

I know it'll take at least a few years for the emotional turmoil to die down.  I didn't really take time to mourn.  Nobody cares if I'm sad; they need me to keep functioning.  I need to keep everything going - house, school, kids, work. At work I have lots of time to think, but I haven't come to any conclusions.  Mostly I just worry. 

I worry about Mom dying.  Every day she lives is a bloody miracle that she didn't get in a car wreck, or take too many pills, or starve to death, or stick her head in an oven.  I worry about my in-laws dying.  Syd's the only dad I've got left, and he's 70.  I worry that since I take after Dad more than anyone else that I'll die young, too. 

I guess I just wanted to say happy birthday, and I wish you were here, but healthy and stable and sane. 

Tuesday, July 14, 2015

this year sucks so far.

I'm feeling kinda down on myself.  I feel like I haven't accomplished enough or done enough aren't good enough.  I'm applying for jobs, and that always  makes me feel lousy. 

But if you look back on this year so far...

I took a large chunk of the investigation and negotiations that resulted in my brother in law, who I was fairly close to, put in jail and all the aftermath that comes with it. 

Then my kids' school counselor, who I'd just barely been working with, got arrested for raping a teenage client of his.  We'd been neighbors in two previous houses and his wife and kids played with me and mine. 

Then a week after Matt's sentencing my dad died.  I ended up spending three weeks doing nothing but helping my mom sort through finances and emotions and just being general support. 

Maybe I should stop being so hard on myself and be glad and happily surprised I'm not a freaking nutjob at the moment.  Because holy crap, this year sucks so far!

I'm a bit paranoid waiting for the next disaster. 

Saturday, May 16, 2015

rainstorm

We drove up the hillside
where we could see the city sprawled below
and lightning scattered here and there
across the valley. 
Rain sheeted from the newly treated windshield
like water on oil.
Thunder rolled right above us.
It was terrifying and exciting and beautiful,
seeing the storm from such a high vantage,
laid out before us like some kind of special effect.
We turned on the radio
and sang all the way home. 

Wednesday, May 13, 2015

Sometimes writing helps unload what's on my brain.  Sometimes I'm too exhausted even for that.  I think today I'm somewhere in between.  Too pent up to sleep, too tired to make anything pretty.

People tell me their secrets.  I seek out peoples' dark sides in order to try to bring them some light.  Sometimes it gets overwhelming, the amount of pain and destruction people cause each other and themselves.  Today I got to ask a therapist how she handles everything that comes into her office without taking it home with her.  She says she does the best she can while at work, and then turns the rest over to God.  She's done the best she can, and the rest is no longer her responsibility. 

Today I had a lady declare suicidal inclinations and then walk into a bar.  I had to decide whether or not I would follow her in for the good cause of trying to bring her back out.  I decided against it.  Maybe the person didn't seem desperate enough to warrant me going against my principles.  Maybe I was angry that she rejected my offer to do anything besides get drunk.  I told her I'd be available until midnight, and then I must sleep. 

It's also hard when an adult admits to abuse they suffered as a kid.  You hurt so badly for that kid, but you can't help them.  The kid is grown and the opportunity is long since past.  All you can do is offer an ear, a hug, and whatever sympathy they'll take.  I can't fix people.  All I can do is point them at resources and hope they can put in the work themselves.  The things we do to children in the years we have them last a lifetime. 

---

I had a job interview yesterday.  I'm not sure if I want it or can even do it.  I had another job recommendation today for another job I'm not sure if I want or can do.  My self-esteem is shot to pieces, and my professional productivity has come to a screeching halt.  I feel like I can't DO anything.  That despite whatever gifts or abilities I may have, or even any good effort on my part, will never be good enough.

People keep telling me to write.  And it's not like I don't have ideas.  There's the first person narrative of a mindhacker/lucidi profiling people in a social environment that got me labeled as a sociopath (thanks, you jerk).  There's the story of a person's life as written in letters addressed to God.  There's the story of the Neon Dreamer and Uprising and heck, even Virtual Magick would be a fun case study. 

And I wonder... if anything is worth the effort.  Life.  "We keep striving, trying to survive in a world that doesn't give a flying fuck."  Why?  From a religious perspective, it's because there's work to do.  But as religion and I aren't getting along as well as we used to, that leaves existential depression.  So that's a thing. 

I'm tired and rambly.  I have to stay awake for 30 more minutes.  That's enough time for some ramen.

Saturday, April 25, 2015

fallen muse



one by one my heroes fall
until there's nothing left to look up to
to hold onto
and i wonder if i should stop
trying to keep people alive.
alive for what?
more of this?

i loved you. 
i loved you!
how could you do this?
why didn't you tell me?
how did i not see it
in you or in her?
is this my fault
for not noticing
or for opening the gate?
i don't even know how to feel anymore.
i loved you and wanted you for so long
it is hard to reconcile that
with this
defilement.

--

all this music,
all these places,
all these memories are yours.
i don't know what to do with them.
truly you become a ghost,
gone
gone.
there's this hole,
aching, bleeding,
and i'm broken and furious.

Friday, July 18, 2014

crossroads

Three things needed to happen to put down roots.  A career for my spouse, a home of our own, and a career for me.

The first is done, the second is in progress. That leaves me. What do I want to do? 

I want to help people (or hide from them).
I want to matter/ make a difference.
I don't want to be miserable.
I want to help provide for my family.

I've been told I should open a half-way house for all the crazies that find me.  I could go into social work, but I think it might kill me to expose myself to that much suffering from other people. 

I've also been told I should write.  Write something, anything, everything.  It's been a recurring theme from friends, family, neighbors for the last several months.  It's written into my patriarchal blessing, if you believe in such things.  I don't want to write anymore, though.

An off-hand comment about my writing sounding like a sociopath.
The content is unpalatable for the darkness no one wants to see.  Unsharable for the secrets they hold.
One of my heroes, writer of the townrats theme song (Lost Prophets - Rooftops) got arrested for child molestation.  How can I use it anymore?
I don't think I have any skill anymore.  The talent has been hidden under a rock and wasted away.  And yet, if I take things in threes as a sign, then the dozen reminders to write must not be ignored.  The writer's group even landed in my lap (not literally, thank heavens). 

I think I'd like to write about my muse.  A set of song lyrics that follow that plot arch like Brad's did many years ago.  I'd like to write about the logical conclusion of suicide.  And yes, finish the piece that got me labeled a sociopath, because fuck you, Mr. Bear.  You speak lies.  It's the bit of lucidi/mindhacker people-analysis. 

Writing does not pay bills, though, unless you're very persistent and very lucky.  I still must find some other job to do.  Something that doesn't involve panic attacks on a regular basis. 

I should sleep.  Sigh.  If I can make it through the home-buying and Paychex process that'd be nice.