Warning: Diary dump…. scroll away as fast as you can.
For some reason I can’t get the emotional energy up to finish writing the five or six things I started in the past week. A friend dilemma, issues with my parents, life changes, stories… It’s too heavy and I can’t make the effort. It’s the stuff I toss and turn to in bed—lie on my side and think of one thing, flip over, think of another… repeat ten or fifteen more times until three a.m…
Which is my fault because I do go to sleep too late. I stay up past one-thirty and then wonder why I’m ready to go back to bed as soon as I wake up. I subsist mainly on Doritos and ice cream. How I’m not three hundred pounds is a modern-day miracle. The secret is to not eat for eight hours, binge, and then don’t eat again until the next binge.
I want to stop taking my seizure medication and let the chips fall where they may because the meds make me forgetful and kill my creativity. And also dumb enough to think stopping is a good idea.
I hate my new haircut.
Perhaps there’s a soul out there who’s relieved that I don’t write about my boss much anymore. What’s there to say? She hasn’t changed. I spend every day poring over job reports that she can’t interpret by herself. She doesn’t understand what I do and actually fears the HR software system. As stupid as she is, she at least has the sense to fear what she doesn’t know and stay away.
Speaking of work, I hate this time of year more than any other. I hate meeting the countless new hires, stupid kids who have zero interest in being there. People don’t realize how much social anxiety I have because I’m good at acting. I feel like I’m having a heart attack when I have to talk to more than one person at a time.
I’ve also just passed ten years in that shithole. I could write a book about this decade, a long pathetic book.
Then I stupidly agreed, out of guilt, to teach sixth grade CCD (Catholic religious education, similar to Sunday school). The last time I did it, I was borderline suicidal and was saved only by covid lockdown. The only reasons I agreed are that it’s two nights a month in the classroom ,the desks have to be distanced, which will make clustering together harder, and they have to wear masks. I have zero talent as a teacher, no classroom management abilities, and can display no passion. I tend to approach things from the head and that doesn’t work with kids. And I can’t stand their staring. They just sit and stare at me when not ignoring me. I want to climb up on a desk and scream “What the fuck are you staring at me for??!!”
The only thing I consistently like doing is attending Mass. I found a local Traditional Latin Mass which is made all the sweeter in knowing that Bergoglio—I’m sorry, “pope” Francis—hates it. If it were a Pachamama rain-dance, he would demand that it be promoted everywhere,
I just can’t get up the will to write even though I want to. I start one thing and then leave off to start something else. I really did enjoy writing every day in September. I loved thinking about it all day and stealing time at work when necessary. It was never a chore, but an enjoyable challenge. I miss doing it. I should probably go back and edit the whole thing but I’m not ready to talk about it.
I partially blame my parents for everything because parents screw up their kids before the kids are aware enough to know what’s what. And after that, it’s often too late. In my case, it was too late.
I’m not unhappy, though, and I have more to be grateful for than I deserve. I’m sad, and I’m not sad, because all these gaps are opportunities for something better. Life’s a beautiful gift and even in my lowest moments I believe with all my heart that while there’s life there’s hope.
But that’s enough mushiness for now.