Tag: emotional

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Note: Please be aware that I am doing a lot better now! This was just so… raw… that I felt compelled to post it here.


So I realized an uncomfortable truth over the weekend, while we were off doing our own things– and I did mine, and it was great; I saw and old friend and we caught up in years. But the problem surfaced itself when I went home alone to an empty house. 


I played a video game, then went to bed. I talked to no one.


When weekends were talked about I kept interjecting “that sounds fun” and maybe hinting at wanting to be invited in the future. In one case, I received an “It’s not your thing.” To which I countered that the event we were going to was also not my thing, but was proven wrong with the frequency of which I went. He conceded that point.


But then I got to thinking of two things: Why was I trying so hard? And what do I even enjoy any more? What is my thing, anyway?


For the latter, that was what put me in a funk all week.  I know I’ve been in a loop of trying new things, an endless search of finding more of what I like, or what I used to like. I know what I like (sushi! sci-fi! chiptunes! writing!). I know what I do (like, my job, and sleeping in, and drinking way too much tea). I also know what I like to do and what I would like to do. And yet I feel so driftless. Because… if any of that is me, or just things I like to do? Is there a difference? Should there be?  Those few years I was becalmed really messed me up. Because the things I like now– are they genuine, or just stopgaps to keep the sadness at bay? And like the damaging habits I created to protect myself, do I need to discard them?


The real answer, as always, is a bit more complex than that. The things that kept me sane whilst becalmed are valid; I just need to apply them in a healthy and fun context. I realized I stopped writing poetry because I was tired of being in pain. But there are other things to write stanzas about, like this beautiful dream I have that’s worth living. I need to do these things not in the context of escapism, but the creativity it’s supposed to be and catharsis when necessary. 


But.


Why was I trying so hard?


The non-eloquent answer is, frankly, that I’m lonely. I wish I was invited to things, too. I wish I had more to do that aren’t solitary pursuits. And I wish I wasn’t so petrified of reaching out to people and I was more of a conversationalist and was interesting and not so scared.


When all was said and done that Saturday night, it was just me, Xenosaga III, and Pokemon GO. Not a message received (but I didn’t reach out, either). No one dropped by (but I haven’t invited anyone yet, either). My nearest and dearests were out of town, and the majority of my friends have moved away from this city or were otherwise busy (or so I assumed). 


I grew too used to being alone. But now that I’ve felt that it didn’t have to be that way, the slide from solitude to loneliness is acute.


I need to do what they’re doing– reaching out, making plans, being a little brave. But it all seems so hard.


The only thing to outgrow are these chains.

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Do you ever think about
The books you left behind?
Every time you moved– and then–


The very first move was an adventure to something greater. Our first real house, with a garage and and attic and my own room. The move after that, a grander adventure away from home.


When I was younger, I had the privilege and the ability to bring with me all I had: every game, every glass bottle, every book. Perhaps I didn’t have too much, or it was easier to let some things go, or I just didn’t notice and when I did, it was inconsequential. The second move found me still young but old enough to choose what to leave behind –a book here, some bottles there… Later in life, there were moves necessitating the need for me to sell some things: gas money for the drive, monetary compensation for what I couldn’t bring with me.


I have moved a total of 8 times, if I am counting correctly. But the one move I think of often is bittersweet, but I did something a little different.


I volunteered at a library for something to do. I was shaken out of a job and aimless. We cataloged books in Excel, recycled others, and dusted the shelves for a few hours each day. Not many people came in. Bored high schoolers, mostly. Locals would come and donate more books and peruse the shelves, occasionally having their names written down in a notebook as they checked out things.


I eventually received an eviction notice; I couldn’t be aimless forever. So I was going back home, again. I had to downsize, again. But not to a pawn shop or bookstore or a GameStop.


While packing I took stock of everything: the furniture, knicknacks, flowers, books… more books. One pile held the ones I wanted to keep, and another of books I wouldn’t mind losing. And this time, there was a new stack: some I couldn’t bear to part with, but I did nonetheless. The last two stacks were to be donated to the library.


I touched each book, recalling fond memories of my discovery. How epic the 3-in-1 paperback felt, and how it left me thoughtful long after I finished. Another I read in high school and the excitement I had when its sequel released. A small book of poems that carried me through college.


They were dear to me, but I found them in a library once. If I left them there, if someone needed them they will be there.


I left books on the library selves.


–Once, it pained you
But you grew used to letting go, so
You gave them up for someone else to read.

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My grandmother was dying when I penned this post.

There is a lot of what my mother bitterly calls it, drama, concerning the surrounding circumstances. But most of it is not important; what matters at this moment is how she does not want any of this drama when the time comes for her to require elderly care, and when she passes away.

"Please, put me in a home." I know. Unlike her sister, I will do the responsible thing and recognize that I can be no caregiver. "And I do not want a viewing." Give me flowers while I am living. We agree on that. She does not want the "song and dance" of the whole funeral thing and knowing her family, "song and dance" would be the understatement of the decade. She doesn’t even want a gravestone. "Cremate me. Or donate my body to science. I’m already an organ donor." She even suggests, if she ever succumbed to dementia like her mother, to pump her full of LSD and, hm, let her go. "If I’m going out, I want to have a good time."

Jokes aside, no one likes to think about their mother dying.

So the topic turned to other things– in hindsight– a segue. Mom had recently visited the attic to retrieve the vinyl collection. As an avid user of Spotify and iTunes, she no longer felt the need to keep them around and was going to donate them. And the packrat that I am (my VHS collection can attest to this), I snatched them up.

We went through the entire stack. Some I’ve never seen before (growing up, I was more interested in the growing technology that was the Compact Disc; the vinyls were safe from my pillaging), but some I recognized as the art the covered the living room wall. From Talking Heads to Prince, Michael Jackson and ZZ Top and AC/DC and… albums about… drag racing? That one took me by surprise.

Some are certainly damaged. Others scratched. Others still, missing covers in the dusty stack. Covers missing records.

While I did joke about selling The Beatles’ White Album, I knew they weren’t going anywhere. Especially with mom’s words in my ears, about leaving nostalgic tokens of love behind.

There was a story for most of them: going to the record store after watching The Wall, her singing a few bars of Lovin’ You, some albums she had while growing up, and some I remember fondly as cool stuff on the walls.

These stacks of albums tell a story of what my parents experienced and loved. It is another thing I can hold, memories of weight I can feel and thumb through.

When the time comes I will let her go, but I’ll hang onto Fleetwood Mac’s Tusk album for a while longer.

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I was on vacation last week.

Before, I made plans: to fix things around the house we’ve been putting off, to play video games, to talk to people, and to write.

Before and during, I also focused on making my space feel more like "me." That included reorganizing, decluttering, and adding more art and figurines to my walls. And making my bed even softer. And finally obtaining a soundbar for my subpar television audio output. And– most importantly– making actual space on my brand new desk for longhand writing.

My vacation was spent fixing the back door and replacing and toilet seat and upgrading our showerhead and  making spacemakers for our countertops and stocking up on dinner food and figuring out how to jump in Spyro Reignited and having a blast with Goat Simulator and reaching level 125 in Ring Fit Adventure and

my writing area remained blank.

I also rested. I had the energy to cook dinner, so I did. I enjoyed movies like Coming 2 America until the late hours of the night.

My bullet journal was open, but remained blank.

I bought a Wacom Tablet and purchased the Affinity suite of photo editing software, because I missed doing that sort of thing. And it was high time I learned software other than Adobe. When I remembered to, I logged onto Discord and hopped around Twitch.

Three days into my vacation I realized I didn’t write anything at all for the 750Word challenge this month. I’m still on the Wall of Shame from my last attempt.

I also read the loveliest book, Honey Girl. It was so vibrant and poetic. "Are you there?" I’m  reminded of monsters, the magic of other lonely creatures, and the challenges of a world determined to crush said magic. (That much I should say, without spoilers.)

I had a magic moment of my own, but perhaps I’ll dream of it again.

I was very productive, and I made sure to have plenty of rest. Except for the matter of my blank canvas.

But, this was what I expected.

As my hours became filled with work, and house errands, and exhaustion from the former, I had less time and energy for the things I loved to do. That included writing.

And I’ve lost my knack on sliding in words into what little slivers of time I have. I dream of writing. I dream of good ideas. But I need to return to the habit of at least writing them down.

So.

I opened up 750words and mused, "suppose I’ll start here. I’ll write about my not-so-magical-but-productive vacation."

Little steps. 456 words out of 750, but it is a start.

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“Whoa,” I said, sitting up a little as the credits rolled. “I haven’t heard that in forever.”


“What song is it?” he asked, shifting under my head. We had been binging Jojo’s Bizarre Adventure for two hours and Netflix’s “Are you still there?” prompt caught us lounging on the couch, my head on his lap.


“…I don’t know. It’s been so long since I’ve heard it.”


And as he did a quick Google search, I was too busy remembering.



As everyone should know by now– by pop culture osmosis or actually reading and/or watching the series– JJBA references rock artists and songs.


And my dad loved classic rock (rock, generally). Music, generally, but classic rock was his favorite genre. When I first heard Roundabout, I wasn’t familiar with it. But I knew the style, and it was confirmed by my mom that it was one of the many songs he liked.


I may not remember much, like the title or who performed it, but I knew that tune from my childhood:


There are spoilers here, btw. Check out Spotify instead if you need to.


Growing up for me consisted of a lot of waiting– my school district was in another county, so we had to wait an hour for the bus. When I was older, we waited for daycare to open. During the periods where we had only one vehicle, we waited for mom to get out of work. We waited for the bus again in my high school years and when I graduated, we waited in a McDonald’s parking lot on top of a surprisingly scenic hill.


A lot of that waiting was done in the car, with the radio on. And all of the time, it was me and my dad. And finally, my dad would scope out pretty chill places to, well, wait. These would usually be bodies of water or an interesting bit of forest. When he was in the mood, he’d talk (OK, a lot of the time it was more like lecturing), but we mostly just listened to the music.


And hearing the first bars of that song… it jogged a memory of when I was much younger: There was a lake, and it was afternoon, probably early spring. We may have been killing time before we picked up mom. I don’t remember what I was doing or even which car it was at the time. Hell, human memory is pretty faulty in general and I could be misremembering all of this.


But I remember when my dad was still alive.


Grief is something else. It never goes away, it just crops up when you’re watching an animated series that’s supposed to be (for the most part) fun. But considering my reaction to Dan of Steel (Gaucho was another defining background album from my childhood), I kinda saw this coming.


So this “just” (air quotes) made me miss him.


I listened to this song on Spotify and finally cried again.

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Throwback Thursday: a note on Feb 5, 2018.


Fang: [Vanille]’s a crybaby, though! She cries as soon as she gets lonely or insecure. But if I stroke her head, she stops as if nothing is wrong.

Lebreau: In that case, you’ll need to find her quickly and pat her on the head.

Fang: Yup.

Final Fantasy XIII


I keep saying I need to get back to journaling, or at least blogging,
because I’ve been through a ton of emotions and trying to process them
is a delightful and horrifying blur. Part of it is just me being me, and
part of it is because I rewatched Star Wars: The Last Jedi and seeing
Carrie Fisher up there sets off a deluge.


That, and.


I’m surrounded by people that not only like me, but a few also love me. And even a few more that want to spend time with me.


And each connection is something different.


And some connections are still here, still loving me.


That, and.


I’m still broken, and I’m still fucking up, and I still hear the
voice in my head telling me that people will stop loving me the moment
they realize how broken I am, or. They’re going to discard me the
instant I make one mistake because that’s happened so many times


but the voice is… manageable. Sometimes. More, sometimes.


That, and.


I’m recognizing the voice’s tricks. Sometimes, it doesn’t help much. But there’s power to naming and recognizing something.


That, and.


I’ve been healing in interesting ways. But it’s been slow. It’s been
clumsy. I’m sorry. I’ve changed. I don’t really know me from before. I’m
an echo.


That, and.


I’m overdue for a good cry, actually.


That, and.


I wonder if– no, when, as it’s been predicted, if you believe in that sort of thing– I’ll start using my gills, too. I do when I have to. I still come up for air.


But. (“Strike that. Reverse it.”)


I dive instead, and refuse to come up for hours. And sometimes I can’t I’m this fragile fish that’ll melt if I get too close to the surface.


That, and.


I want to try everything everything everything though my shy soul balks the entire time. As shy souls do. Xie’ll let me know when I’m (not) ready.


That, and.


I’m contradictions and multitudes, damn it. Yet I still exist. And I am valid. Gills and lungs. I love the shore. I will go to it. I adore the deep, too. I’ll go back to it.


That, and.


. Sometimes the best thing you can do is survive. Pray someone swoops in and knocks you out of the way because you are more than a sacrifice.


That, and.


I could use a pat on the head right now. But I’m in solitude, for I need to rest and heal. Listening to my body. Surviving.


I’m tired. I’m tired of thinking.


But I’ll come up for air in a few days.


You can pat me on the head then, and I’ll pat yours.

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https://youtu.be/DkulwLg_u8w


It’s weird to wake up not knowing who you are. You do all this stuff, you enjoy these things, yet you still wake up wondering what your “thing” is.


And in a strange show of wanting to feel included, you leave hints that you’d like to be invited to the next thing. Because you’re still questing as to what, exactly, your “thing” consists of. Maybe that’ll be it.


You’re still reeling from those years stuck in a rut– “becalmed” if you want to be romantic about it– because you have a quiet fear that the things you enjoyed then were only crutches to keep you alive to the next day. Or worse, things you needed to outgrow because you’re a Real Adult now. With like, a house with utility bills and everything.


You know that you’re lonely. That you need to be vulnerable again, to reach out. You also know that your hobbies are valid and just need dusting off. And you know damn well you need to get out of the house and not just for errands.


You know what you’re lacking. You need more dates. More people time. More people time that doesn’t end with sex. More music. More conversations. More stories to tell. More dreams to witness. More parks to visit. More prompts.


And yet. It’s 2am and you can’t sleep; you don’t want to. Because it’s just job and eat and sleep and repeat and clinging a little too hard because you feel unanchored without a “thing” and you’re jealous that they got a “thing” they stumbled upon and you were too chickenshit to forge bonds of/on your own.


Or you’re scared your “things” are so niche that you’ll enjoy them alone, not in content solitude but in loneliness-by-circumstance because there’s no one else interested to share them with. So you hope for an invite, and go along, and even if you end up not liking it you learned one more thing about yourself.


You fear you’ll always be the tag-along. In spite of your knee-jerk bitterness and resolve to just traverse the event alone, if you have to, because of course the meetup party couldn’t wait for you… you just want to feel included.


So. I don’t know what my “thing” is. If I have one. Or maybe I have many.


And how much of this is me, and how much of it is just things I picked up just because I happened to be there? Is there even a difference? Does it really matter?


I suppose there’s only one way to find out.

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“I deal with my pain by writing.”


That is how the original draft began. This is what I said to my girlfriend an hour ago.


It’s still true.


And it’s been a week. A typical, stressful week: I had 17 dollars to my name until payday, work sucked slightly more than usual, that monthly hormone nonsense, and bad news.


I thought things would be okay. I got a new lamp for my bedroom. I had a date. I had another date. Payday happened and I could pay my bills. I know a little more of what I want to do with this blog. Living with my nesting partners is still going smoothly.


We received news that he was conscious and in a walker and had grits and coffee and did a few more tiny Facebook posts.


A part of me knew that the prognosis still held. I know that all too well. They gave my dad 6 months but he managed to stay with us a year longer.


But still I thought he’d be home again, drinking rum and recalling times when he had to pull out a Sharp Pointy to prove a uh, point.


When he passed on, I was on a date. I wanted to be a present as possible– I was preoccupied and 10 minutes late– when the date mentioned spiced rum and orange juice I had a feeling– I was still reeling from having to call 911 for someone going through heroin withdrawals moments before said date arrived–


(A stealth edit: The life/death juxtaposition still holds. You died, and I’m trying to live a little more.)


I’m sorry I was late.


The news came to me after finally digging and scrolling through Facebook’s shitty algorithm. The last of our rum was in a tiny cup on the altar being lit by one candle because I had a feeling.


I haven’t deeply cried again, not yet. I’ve had a week to prepare. So it may be another week before I do. Or maybe I’m not used to other people seeing me cry like that, at home.


I received a text from said date; they weren’t feeling a connection and wished me the best. But life goes on, even if it’s a little dimmer without a friend in it.


Even if we weren’t close, but were fire-forged in such a way that’s unique to people who haven’t got around to meeting in person, but still shined through to each other.


Sometimes family is chosen and the distance doesn’t matter.


Sometimes you don’t realize who your chosen family is until they pass away and you realize “friend” is just out of habit but not quite strong enough.


Sometimes a draft is almost perfect and enough:


“Knowing” is relative. We’re Facebook friends. We were in the same group. We had a lot of mutuals in common. … Their posts and presence always brought a smile to my face.


I don’t know what to say.


Other, better people have said it better.


I feel like I’m too late. All of my gratitude, my thanks, my love– I should have expressed it more when they weren’t on their deathbed and now they’re gone.


I never write on Facebook walls; I did a few days ago.


I love you. I’ll miss you. We all will miss you.


My world genuinely grows darker without you in it.


And anyone that says Internet Friends aren’t real? They don’t know what the fuck they’re talking about. Facebook just shrunk the world, that’s all. …This is impacting me as if we were only a short drive away.


Remember, everyone, you touch people. No matter how slight it is.


And as with every death, the emotional cycle: anger at someone so good being taken away, sadness at not doing more, utter fear of losing my loved ones, the reminders that sound like shallow platitudes but actually need to be said again and again, so we don’t forget.


Because it’s really easy to forget when you’re thinking about bills and feeding the cat and that damn neighbor throwing trash in your fucking yard and that date you wished worked out a little better or the supervisor you’ll have to deal with Monday.


Here are some of your reminders:


  • Love hard.
  • Tell people you love them. Often.
  • Reach out.


And no matter how small an impact, you still made an impact to somebody. Your passing will always affect someone in this world.