On a Roll: day 2

 

I’m writing in word today. Making me think of Creed’s blog back in the office. Probably shouldn’t post about sex on the blog. Even if no one reads it, enough people know whose blog this is, and it’s not hard to figure it out if you care to. I scrubbed all references of my name on it, but I’m sure there are still links and shit that can lead you to the conclusion of identity. Yay.

 

I hate the modern problem of authenticity. We can’t say how we feel without fear of firing, ostracization, cancellation, etc. I’ve been guilty multiple times of people I disagree with getting fired and having more than a bit of gleeful schadenfreude towards them. Even if they’re voicing agreement with fascist dictators and racist pieces of shit, IDK if they should’ve been fired. I feel so much guilt and fear it’s awful. I want to just say my truth, but I apparently live in a police state and watched it creep up around me and now it’s too powerful to take down. I’m grateful of all the people fighting, and ashamed I’m not fighting more.

I don’t really know why I’m so ashamed and afraid of why I should be responsible to fight. Who the fuck am I to challenge? What power do I have to make a difference? I don’t know if it was religious upbringing saying I was special and chosen by daddy god to make a difference and be alight to the world. (fuck typos, deal with it). I don’t know if it was because daddy god gave me cancer as a teenager, and I told myself the afflictions would be consecrated for my gain. Instead of weakening my body for my life, dragging me down, making me bitter and closed off. Thanks daddy. Fuck you daddy god.

 

I have so many problems I don’t know what to complain about first. So that’s cool. I AM really getting better in pretty much all of them, so that’s cool. I mean it’d be cooler if one of the problems wasn’t my country falling apart around me with nothing I can do but hunker down or consider fleeing. So that’s cool. Didn’t think all the times I sang the star spangled banner or repeat the pledge of allegiance that I’d be worried I have to run away because my country no longer has freedom. And I feel guilt that, for so many fellow americans, it hasn’t had freedom much longer.

There’s a poem about America being on fire, and the poet wants to let it burn to the ground. But then they remember “there are children inside.” I want to help, and when I ask what I can do, it’s call your politicians offices and leave a message with an intern who wishes you were dead or a slave. I hope a revolution is coming. I hope we can survive and that the enemy can learn to be the allies.

 

I want to fight with love. But I also want to fight with fire. And I’ll probably fight with clicktivism and self loathing.

 

One of my favorite shows is Steven Universe. One theme is throughout the show, most or all of the threats and enemies become understood with empathy and patience and become friends. I think that’s the best foot forward. But I also watch them tear us apart, and no one is talking to me about it. I know it’s because I’m scared and a nobody/peasant/serf. Oy vey. Is this helping me? I don’t fucking know.

 

I am overwhelmed. I am scared. I am multitudes. I am cute. I am broken. I am a survivor.

 

I have BPD and trauma/ptsd and other acronyms. Most things say the cure or the way to reduce the symptoms is to have a better sense of self. And I’m doing that I think. I am getting to know the pieces of myself and and working towards healing them. I’m working towards them. Healing them. Now I’m just writing filler trying to fill the pages faster. Ugh. I want to be better already. I want to heal. I want to be healthy and smarter and not freak out or spiral at the first chance I get.

 

BPD makes me terrified of abandonment. I think everyone has or will. I try to reassure myself and comfort those scared parts. They’re all so scared. It’s annoying in some ways that so much of my parts are based in fear. But better to work on it now than 20 years from now.

I thought I’d be immune from a mid life crisis. Or that I already had it. If I can get a ponytail and a convertible I’d do it if it meant I got through this faster. I feel like so much of my life has been wasted. I only have one life and how much of it is spent doing what I want to do instead of what I should do or have to do? How much mediocre conversations or forced work, undesired by myself or others, has these 42 years been spent on? How much more mediocrity and menial mundanity will I meander through without meaning? (only partially intentional alliteration). I want to write poetry that moves people, art that makes them cry at the beauty of it. I want to kiss to change the world and I want to dance like everyone’s watching. I want to tell jokes and make the world better with comedy.

 

Can’t you tell? I’m fucking hilarious. I want to work harder on my artistic endeavors. Not for the world but for me. For the transformative power of art. For the Proustian moments that make life bearable/enriched. Instead I’m gonna spend my Saturday cleaning a house that will probably look like I didn’t spend all my hours and spoons on it the next fucking day.

 

If anyone wants to give me a genius grant so I can hire a staff to manage all the shit I don’t wanna do so I can focus on making mediocre art and sexist poetry.

 

I thought I was a good feminist ally. But I just finished two poems that made me feel like an asshole. One was about the medusa myth, and my anger at athena for cursing her priestess (did I write about this yesterday? Who gives a fuck I guess) but I didn’t realize I had little or no anger directed at Poseidon, Medusa’s assaulter, or Perseus, her murderer. I think I already wrote about this. Anyway, it made me feel douchey and problematic. I hate being male. But I’m not female. I think I’d know by now. Maybe I’m nonbinary. Or is it just another mask I wear than the real me? Gender is stupid. Labels are limiting. The world is ending and I’m whining to the ether instead of fighting until it’s impossible to do even that.

 

I’m probably done for today. This was much less cathartic than yesterday. But I’m gonna keep at it as I think overall writing muscles flexing. Flexing writing muscles. It’s also hard because apparently my family can’t clean unless the disable dad with mental illness is also cleaning. But it’s an infinite number of the times dear old disabled dad cleans when no one else is.

Now I’m bitching about the people I love most in the world. Healthy and smart. Post it online. It’s not like a journal post online almost ruined my relationship with the love of my life before it began. Watch me go insane. It won’t be meaningful, it won’t be seen, but at least it won’t be boring. Or maybe it will. I’m not a fucking psychic.

We went on a date for the first time in a long time, meaning we went to dinner ½ an hour before closing. We brought baggage of the week and the world because of course we did. It was still a nice time. My chicken was raw inside so they comped it free and gave me a replacement to take home that I’m a bit scared to eat. I’d like to go on a date tonight, but she complains about money because she handles the finances because I’m a terrified little kid who goes insane when he get it pointed out to him that we’re barely scraping by with the effort of me giving 100%. And then I feel like the 100% I give is not enough. My spouse and my therapist and my friends and dead gurus all say your 100% is good enough. But capitalism disagrees. The world disagrees. I’m never enough.

Enough is an addicting target, because it’s unspecified so it’s very easy for my frightened protectors to tell me you’ll never be enough. Because there is no enough. I know that, they know that. But it’s still fulfilling in a twisted way to have that reminder. I am not enough. No one is enough. But that’s ok. We can still try to enjoy friends and wine however forms those take. Grape juice and ward members. Vino more expensive than a car and servants. Conversation, art, laughter, maybe fucking, make life not wasted. It’s just a pity we have to carry so many capitalist leeches on our backs in the meantime. 1/3 of life spent sleeping, 1/3 spent working. 1/3 spent trying to cope with not enough of the first and too much of the second. Coping. That’s why I survived cancer. So I could try to cope with the planet and my failings and how it sucks and whether America dies first or I do, there’s nothing I can do about either.

I was trying to end on a positive note. Maybe tomorrow. Today I’m off to push a rock up a hill until it rolls back down again I mean clean my house and fold laundry. Maybe I can get laid, maybe I can be reminded of my failings by my loved ones and my body. Imma talk to my parts now because I’m sane and see if I can get some energy to face the world even if it’s a losing struggle I can still agitate and struggle. Agitation makes pearls, I think Scott Adams said that or at least quoted it. Is he a fascist/fascist fanboy? Probably. Everyone lets you down. Everyone fails. But we keep trying, and I think there’s something positive in that. The stupidity of the human condition. Born in a losing struggle and trying to make meaning in a meaningless world, while those who found or follow worse meanings work to end your struggle faster. Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.