Let me set this up, otherwise you’ll never get where my head was sitting this morning.
Someone told me a while back, “You’ve got to understand you never know where life is taking you, or what will come next”. And that is true; you don’t know what’s going to happen to you tomorrow, or the day after. Hell, you don’t know what’s coming at you by the time you’ve finished reading this post.
But I do know where I’ve been, and for the most part I have no problem flipping off life. My life, quite honestly, sucks. I’m bi-polar; I’ve been suicidal; I’ve had a few other curve balls tossed my way at a young age that still haunt my ass in ways I’m not comfortable speaking about. It’s not been a good 54 years. So my first impulse, when I hear “You never know what life is gonna bring ya,” is to say, yeah, I do: more crap.
As a teenager going into my twenty-somethings, it seemed like serious traffic accidents and me went hand-in-hand. I’ve been in cars that have driven flew plowed fields at 60 miles per hour; I’ve been in a car that rolled; I was once in a Trans-Am where the driver lost control at 80 mph and we ended up taking off the entire front end of a garage and, had I been wearing a seat belt, I would have taken a 4 x 4 right in the face (this was 1976, so settled down). And of all the best things that happened while driving, I was T-boned by a drunk driver who just missed hitting me by about 5 feet, but still managed to put me in the hospital for 2 weeks with a neck injury, and forced me to wear a neck brace for 9 months after.
I was told “You lived through all those because you were meant for something else”. I understand that–but my cynical ass has also thought that I’ve got Khan Noonien Singh trying to take me out, and like a poor marksman he. keeps. missing. the. target!, and I wish the son of a bitch had been a better shot.
The last few years haven’t been easy. Emotionally, I’d shut down. I was on autopilot. I’d get up, go to work, come home, sleep. Pretty much it. Nothing was touching me; nothing wanted to touch me. As I told someone, “The last few years all I’ve been waiting for is to die”. Yeah, that’s not the sort of attitude one should have, but it was mine.
A few years ago I needed to go into a “facility” for “observation”, which is a nice way of saying “I was loosing my shit and I was a danger to myself, so I needed to be watched for 48 hours”. I got out, I got medication, I got some help . . . and then I got laid off, got out of a job, and lost all that.
By this time last year I was a freakin’ mess. There was, to be honest, no one home. I was going through the motions. Yes, I started this blog; I started writing, because I used to love writing, and I thought this would help me. It didn’t; it did nothing for me. I was giving up.
Then . . . something happened.
It was something that I hadn’t experienced in a while, and it really shook me. It helped pull me up. It helped get me to writing again. It also started me to not be so closed up, and I started to open, to feel things I hadn’t in a while. And so the last few months have been good for me–
But here are the holidays, and everything gets messed up.
I hate this time of the year. All it does is remind me of how alone I feel. And that happened. Thanksgiving I called my father, and the first thing he did was ask if I was my sister. I wasn’t, and we spoke for about 2 minutes before he blew me off because he was waiting on a call from her. That was a great kick off.
The rest of the time was very boring . . . hour upon hour of nothing. The one, only, single bright spot was finishing my NaNo Novel on Friday, the 25th, and I had a little bit of a celebration over that.
But after that it was right back to the shit.
Sunday night I tried getting in touch with my son, with whom I’m estranged. I’ve tried over the years getting in touch with him, but he won’t get back with me. Monday was his birthday, so I tried calling–nothing. I left a message, hoping I’d hear something back. Silence.
I wanted to reach out yesterday, but it was hard; everyone is busy, people have their own lives. I understand this, but these days my emotions are cranked up to 11 and when I feel something, I really feel it. In the past I wouldn’t have given a shit because there was nothing there: now . . . there is hurt. A lot of hurt.
Bedtime saw a lot of me knocking myself in the head, more than a bit of crying and cursing because I allowed myself to once more believe things were going to be better. It didn’t feel better; it felt like, once more, life was kicking me in the crotch.
This morning I didn’t have anything in my mind that came close to whispering “hope”. I didn’t have any dreams that I can remember, but if I did they were probably the dark, gloomy ones I’m used to, and not the few I’ve had that bring me such happiness. I lay in bed, with some pain because my back hurt and my legs hurt, and I’d had enough. I was ready to say “fuck it” all over again. I was seriously considering walking away from everything; this blog, my writing, everything, because it wasn’t mattering to me any more, it was better to wall up and shut down.
There was no point in following your dreams, because when you awake reality is there to turn your life into another chapter of The Killing Joke.
So I fire up the computer and log into all my stuff. Already to say the hell with it and move on with my sucky life.
And right there, at the top of my email, is a message. I open it, and it’s from a guy who runs a website on science fiction. I’d sent him an article and he’d published it last night–
He was going on about how, at the time of the email, the article had gotten 1600 hits, and seemed to be a hit on reddit.com. I had to say that put a bit of a smile on my face, seeing that. I spoke with him maybe an hour later by IMs, and he told me there’d been another 200 hits to the article, and the most activity the whole site had seen before this was 500 hits in a day.
And he was very happy I’d sent him another article.
I could hear my friend once more telling me about life, and here it was, shooting at me again and missing. I can hear them saying that I’m meant for something else, and while my inclination is to scream, “Stop making me suffer!” I can hear them say one day I’ll really be happy, and I do have to wonder if they are right.
For now I’m hanging on. All because I did something that appeara to make others happy, and that, in turn, makes me happy.
I guess I’m going to have to keep writing and hope for the best, huh?