Lately I have been indulging that old whore, self-reflection. And of course, what she is showing me ain’t pretty. It’s a difficult birthday coming up in a couple of weeks, like 40 didn’t insult me enough last year. And yet… here I am, no closer to being whatever it is I am supposed to be, and still feeling overt self-loathing because of it.
At this point in my life, I thought I would have a home. Not a stuffed to the gills, too small, overpriced exercise in close communal living. Life in this particular petri dish is really bringing me down, and is actually a step backward from where I was just a year ago. At any rate, I knew what I was facing when I lost my house, and most of the time I just try not to think about it. However, there are just so many ways to distract oneself from the ugly truth. And the even uglier stacks of boxes and laundry that just don’t fit but are necessary to present a semi-capable façade to the world.
I also thought I would have found something more lucrative to do. I think I would be okay with the whole poverty thing if I didn’t have to work several jobs at once to achieve it. For example, being broke but having some kind of time to bathe, read, take naps, clean my house, or look at my kids might not be as evil. Or at least, I don’t remember it as being as evil as this.
What I am realizing is that this life of mine is a lesson in boundaries. I have accepted the unacceptable for so long, it is going to be a long hard climb up the hill to reach that little burgh called Decency. I look forward to at least having a cup of tea there before my mental illness shuttles me off to parts unknown. The topography of this map remains to be seen for the most part, and I continue to explore its shapes with cracked and numb hands.
So what do I have? Resolve? Maybe, but it is quickly disapating from over-use. Intelligence? Only out of a book, obviously, because I keep doing dumb shit. Patience? Not on your life. Self-knowledge? Hmmmm, someone said the unexamined life is not worth living. I say it is a bitch.
So anyway, here’s what I am doing. I am going to change my work schedule at the “main job,” continue to try to freelance and make it until the end of the year. I, with actual regret, gave a notice at my Starbucks job (with regret because other than the plantar’s fasciitis, which makes it unbearable to stand on my feet for longer than an hour and the great pain and difficulty walking, I actually like that job). And with something akin to hope, I actually signed up again for NaNoWriMo again this year. Last year my MacBook crashed in the middle of the first or second week, so I lost my fledgingly effort at that. I may try to recreate that story, as it is still floating around in my psyche somewhere, I think. I dunno. But it’s becoming increasingly clear to me that I will never be a writer if I don’t actually get started. My health sucks, to be blunt, and I’m already creeping into my forties with shame. So if not now, when?
So thanks for reading, if you are. And if you are, please drop a comment or follow my blog. I promise that it will get more interesting as I continue to get my priorities in order.
