2024 (Part Two)

 When you start articulating your thoughts to share with an invisible audience, the narrator in your head begins unravelling the absurdity of your situation. It's the sort of revelation that nourishes the self-loathing cycle into interminable scenarios that only cease with sleep.

Before I make an effort to clarify yesterday's post, there's a handful of things I didn't write that I think should be noted. If I, or anyone else, one day wants to fill in some blanks about me, understanding that my heart was heavy and over-extended was only part of my year's dialogue. Maybe, still broke, still unhealthy was a broad enough swathe that I don't need to say more. Anyone that knows my past maybe can fill in some blanks. Truth is, a couple of people could piece together my 2024 and essentially have enough of the shards to facsimilate a reflection. The outside view, looking in, is to a 52-year-old, mentally unwell individual with autistic traits. This is the perception I believe others have of me, that I really struggle with. I'm aware of this whenever I send a message to someone; or whenever I speak out of turn; and what may be an oddity to my co-workers is surely something else entirely to those I choose as friends. Ron = an untethered fall into narcissism and self-loathing.

June was a particularly bad spell. I ridiculously anchored my joy onto a "promise" that it was going to be a birthday where I was celebrated in a way that I would feel. Mentally, with having no personal reference to build a foundation from, concocted some sort of film-esque day out with this person where we laughed, adventured, and perpetuated those imaginary concepts of good friends on a play date. Instead, I found myself three hours from home, lost, drug-sick, and scared to a point nearing paranoia. I didn't see my friend that day, and I felt like I was barely an after-thought to her plans. An oft-repeated cycle without reliance on a syringe or strangers. That is not to say, there haven't been surrogates.

More than once this year; my doctor positioned me into either addressing the cutting, or placing me into a circumstance where someone will correct it. An infection early in the year unfurled into a scavenger hunt for a clinic that would prescribe antibiotics without an obligatory reading of the charges. This is not a task that is easily deliminated in rural Appalachia. The tools come out when intrusive thoughts are unrelenting, usually as an avenue to train thoughts elsewhere and hopefully sleep. I hoped, now 2+ years alone, that the reliance on these activities would subjugate to other, more creative endeavours, but if anything, the more I invest of myself into the happiness of others, the less energy and interest I have in self-care and distraction.

I did start a junk journal this year, maybe my boldest creative effort. It includes novelties and photos from my New Orleans cemetery visits. It, however, sits in a box, incomplete, uninspiring, unfathomably taxing to pick up. Cities of the Dead is, at this moment, I feel, done. The effort to drag my body to an unknown to film something died on June 1 with the last of my self-preservation. Haloes Curios is also on life-support, more because the effort to craft something I am proud of takes so much time and patience; only to be flagged, copyright-stricken, and trolled by a hateful cretin. The passion needed to muster through that process is in very short supply; it's much easier to gift that energy to someone who needs it, or I believe needs it.

So... that's a lot. A worrying lot. How does one endure themselves when every day is a gloom-parade? It really isn't that. I am guilty of fixating on the cracks, but individuals like Ethan, Bre, Morgan, Pedro, Tucker, Bethy - they've provided bridges across dark chasms. I'm much too reliant on those trestles. My selfishness and narcissism are concerning. Having spent so much of my life on that bank of the river where your only value is what you provide to another, I am not ambivalent to the realization that I ask a lot more from the people in my life than I am providing in return. It's at these crossroads where I turn to gift-giving to show my love and respect, because a "thank you" feels inadequate.

Moving into a wider focus, somehow half of our country felt safe enough to elect a rapist, felon, and compulsive liar to protect our country and it's inhabitants. There is likely no greater reminder that half of the people you know are more angry about egg prices than the existential threat to the life and safety of gay people, non-conforming identities, immigrants, Americans that don't look like "Americans", free-thinking, journalism, justice, the planet. Half of America opted for hateful and terrifying imagery over a hopeful message of unity. If that doesn't make you scared, you should be concerned about who you are and what your values are. No, of course I don't feel confident that somehow the fractured remains of norms and the constitution can somehow survive another four years of constant effort to break them, and that somehow our country will return to it's regularly scheduled program afterwards. All of the machinations are in place to change the future of our democracy forever; complicity has been the rallying cry of the GOP for eight years, and they will absolutely lie down when the weight is at it's heaviest; and why anyone thinks otherwise seems delusional to me. What is the evidence that somehow justice or our democracy will prevail despite the efforts to dismantle them?

Concerts: I didn't see many. The Chameleons was the big one, an incredible night. But I also saw Steph Green with Duff Thompson, and Thala Zedek. I should have seen Mr. Gnome, but Hurricane Helene had other ideas.

I think that's everything I wanted to say. Well, no, it wasn't. It will likely be months before I return here; until then I suppose?

Contemplating 2024

 For someone stagnating as much as I have for as long as I have, it's difficult to say where one year ended and another began. I could probably filter back through FB/IG posts and determine events as they happened. Vague posting is effective in conveying how I felt without specifically detailing the circumstances themselves.

Predatory thoughts often graft themselves much more perniciously than the graces we encounter. I've been off for a number of days now, and if I didn't try to write what was on my mind while the time allowed, it may fall away into darkness. I'm rarely reflective as an annual practice; something about ritualizing the transference of thoughts to text as part of some expanding narrative feels vacant. For me, it feels like visiting a museum of moments, and the contextual fibers that bind those memories are lost. That may be an aspect of my autism.

The failures of this year are primarily of my own devices. Still alone, still not in my best health, still broke, still chasing ghosts. I fully acknowledge that I invested a lot of my heart into a situation that under the best of circumstances would have been fleeting. Of course, "best" was never going to be a reality; and as such, I've spent many nights, last night included, fighting intrusive thoughts. Allowing myself to accept that I will never be enough for this person has been my darkest journey this year. Again, let's be clear, this is a pilgrimage of my own manufacturing; all parties aware of the itinerary, but only myself clearly stating intent. As the new year falls, hopes no longer wane; they lay, shattered. I've no road left, and the gifted hand rests in foreign heart. She is the first thought of every day, and my waning thoughts before sleep takes hold. 

If anything was unexpected this year, it was the arrival of two people into my life that have given me soft landings, and much needed doses of reality. A new employee at work early in the year immediately earned my respect with her biting sarcasm and sense of humor. I kicked open the door into her life, and we've developed one of the most sincere and unflinching friendships I've maybe ever had. She doesn't pull her punches when they are warranted, but she's always careful to not beat me up with honesty. Our relationship despite it's limitations has been bi-laterally nourishing. The bond between us feels like one that will always have been meaningful for both of us, even if our paths diverge... which I anticipate sooner than later.

Through Threads, I met Morgan. A friend I made without the crutch of having mutual friends, a work connection, or even a familiarity of one another. It started as a seedling and grew into a relationship I respect and rely upon. It continues to be nourishing, and I am excited to see where we are as friends this time next year. It often feels like we are figuring out "what the fuck" on parallels; she however exhibits a bravery I've only dreamed of. 

That's enough for today. Maybe more thoughts tomorrow. 

Halloween and October in General

 The people that I interact with regularly sort of know what October has been. I don't really think anyone has the whole story for themselves, and based on the public nature of this blog, I can't really put all the pieces together for anyone. Maybe that's me not being as transparent as I normally am on this page, perhaps, transparency isn't something you can blindly pursue when other people are involved.

Helene did snap the few threads of grounded presence I had remaining from pre-Burnsville life. I've been in a disassociative state throughout much of October just in preservation of what was already a fractured normal. The end of the month brought some respite; a night planned for months; but arrived with much more baggage than the airlines allow. In many ways, it recollected a piece of me that had been left in a box with a dozen letters, mementos, and snuffed emotions. If you'd asked me the day prior what to expect, it wasn't what happened. My barometer for what is beyond expectation is skewed by the fact, that nothing, outside of my son, has given me much hope of joy beyond a single moment. So, what by an outsiders view may have been a good night, felt exceptional to me. And I think for parties involved, the evening was gauged by similar standards. When the road you are on is blanketed in darkness, the occasional house light or street light is a brief escape from the void, but when you reach a town, there's a sense of safety and comfort. You really don't want that moment to be over, especially when the journey beyond is back to darkness. You take every tangible fiber from the experience and stretch it to it's breaking point, just to relive the moment of being natural, unfiltered, unreproached, untethered from reality. I think you can question whether the moment was who you are, or who you want to be. For me at least, it's both.

But as I said, that was an escape. Not being a social person by nature, something like Helene, especially in a community as rural and small as Burnsville requires reliance on one another. While I didn't actively seek people out in potential need, there's nowhere to go without encountering them. For me, at least in Burnsville, everyone in our complex left except two older women. I assumed the role of gathering supplies for myself, Blixa and the two of them. That often meant taking their cars to wait in hour's long lines for fuel, standing in line and then being escorted through our grocery store to buy what supplies were available, and giving them cash from journeys to Asheville to work and check on Hannah. None of it was easy, but it never really sunk in, it was just a matter of what we had to do that day to get to the next day. We had no services for a full two weeks, but we did have a home, and thankfully the weather was mild - this would have been intolerable in The South. The hardest part, was not being able to communicate with anyone outside of my neighbors. I didn't know who cared if I was missing, and I had no way to reassure people I was okay. I had no clue to the extent of the devastation except by word of mouth. People I would wait in line with would share stories about seeing neighbors being ripped away by the river, or seeing houses removed from their foundations and tossed into other homes. Utterly surreal stories that you hear on the news were now being conveyed by people I share a community with. There's nothing that prepares you for first-hand exchanges with people that are in shock and incapable of processing what they've experienced. When I measure my 50+ years of trauma, to their past 24 hours, I feel ashamed. If it weren't for my supervisor, and her ability to rally the carriers that work with us, no one at my place of employment would have made it through that first week. She and her husband brought carloads of supplies from SC, and coordinated with our carriers to do the same. It was enough for me to have what I needed, share with my neighbors, and provide supplies to Hannah. I will never forget how quickly she responded to her peers, and the devotion she had to us to get us through the hardest week. 

I don't want to describe the more morbid experiences I had in those first two weeks, because as an observer, I don't feel it's the right thing to do to try and paint a picture of a tragedy that has forever altered thousand's of lives. To the best of my knowledge, everyone I know and love came out the other side of this only inconvenienced. Many of the people I've met since the storm, are forever different. One thing that I began to learn as my normalcy sprinkled in, and thanks to the generosity of a close friend that opened her home to me, is that an entire political fight was happening around this and lies were being circulated that were counter to my lived experiences. Of course, as with any tragedy on this scale, it's your neighbors more fortunate that are your lifeline, setting up spaces in neighborhoods, parks, churches to provide whatever they can to their community. That was very much the case for Burnsville. The day after the storm, someone I've never seen before or since brought fresh water from a well for Blixa and I... knocking on every door he saw and offering to whomever answered. By the following Monday, resources like FEMA and the national guard were already in town providing relief, meals, internet access spots, and information. By the end of the first week, organizations such as Samaritans were in town offering laundry, showers, and meals. There was no lack of help, and all of them are still here despite Florida taking a Category 4 hurricane only days later. It pains me to have witnessed what should be a sacred event that unites people, being used to hurt people. This has given me a better appreciation for school shootings, and disaster-type tragedies that befall communities all over the world. Lives are forever-altered, and it means nothing but an opportunity to distort truth to some.

That's really all I wanted to say for now. I'm broken, maybe moreso than I was, but I also feel fortunate. One that my life hasn't been changed forever, but also because I did have people concerned; that offered me their home and resources, and especially for a night that allowed me to feel like myself; my old self. And I think, it was enough, that I want to be that person again, and I feel motivated to figure out how.

Rut

 Given the past few years, I thought maybe steady into directionless would circle back to steady. It hasn't. Profoundly hasn't. Suicidal ideations are more prevalent now than any time since my 20s. I keep questioning if I have nailed my own personal path to happiness upon the cross of others. Do I only feel substantive when acknowledged by others. Frustrating as it is, I seem to be stuck in a pattern where I allow myself to be content, only to have the misgivings of someone I care about, shatter that illusion. In my head, I want someone to spend time with... someone I have things in common with, someone I can have a conversation with... someone that enjoys spending time with me as much as I enjoy spending time with them. Sex isn't even a component of those needs, though I wouldn't reject it if it was an option. Nearly every aspect of my nature; exploration, music, film, Autumn - they feel joyless without someone to share them with. Arriving at a place so self-absorbed in the idea of being alone shreds away any hope of escaping myself and enjoying a moment, embracing what is instead of what should be. There's millions of people out there dealing with this same thing, yet, we cannot find one another. If by chance, our orbits cross, we are locked away inside ourselves so deeply, that the present moves about as a ghosts; untethered by our attention, unaffected by our words, unmoved by our touch. Many of us choose to stay home in avoidance of such torture; not existing at home is far less painful than being unseen by masses. "The holidays" are at the doorstep, and I think it's party to the feelings this time of year ushers. I've never been one that is okay with people I care about being alone during "the holidays", and I somehow have convinced myself that other's shouldn't be either; especially the people that matter to me. I've also perfected the metamorphosis of my expectations into belief of ambivalence towards my circumstances. If, somehow, I could travel outside myself, to see myself, I would speak to the aspect of my personality that takes a sledgehammer to the Hallmark novelty of seasonal warmth and good will. I need space; and consistent intrusion of my time exhausts and frustrates me. Expectations placed upon me that don't align with my... let's be real... anything, moor my mood to an exacerbating darkness that consumes any and all things. This... this unpleasant thing is where I begin to understand my narcissism. The thing, that I try so hard to obtain, is a thing that I am ill-equipped to nurture and sustain. I realize, it's a thing, it's a checkbox, it's a collection; it's another blog post. Of all the reasons I dislike myself, this is the thing I am most disgusted with. Is it an aspect of autism, is it an affectation of my childhood, am I simply a bad person? All of those can be true at once, but I feel that none of it is within my current abilities to control. I believe this situation is summed up by stating, "I think I am ready for someone to enter my life, but that's an illusion, and no one is certainly ready for me to enter their life, so I should be alone." Admitting that, circles me back to "why bother" scenarios, and "what's the point" of hurting? 

Everything

 About a week ago, maybe two weeks ago, I was feeling fairly positive about most things. The raise helped, for sure. I felt like my new friendship and existing friendships were in a fairly good place. This week however, everyday has been a slow escalation of anxiety and stress levels. I'm struggling to know what to attribute it to. Several of my friends are dealing with some shit that I myself have been through more than once, and I am allowing the gravity of those experiences to be my own, but not to the extent that it's a shared emotion. I suppose that's the definition of empathy. Helpless is how I feel, I don't have the resources to fix these situations, and I'm at a loss to offer plausible avenues out of them - I simply have the practical realizations I experienced and have shared those moments. No one is asking me for answers, or even asking me for advice - they simply need to express what they are feeling, and that's something hard for me... I want to help everyone I care about and I can't. An aspect of this self-internalizing other's problems is a defect my mom bestowed upon me. She is the one that tries to solve all of my problems with her own research, and I do the same damn thing... everything from trying to make a friend's spouse have a good birthday, to the big shit, like I am unemployed and nearly damn homeless. For as long as I can remember, I have woven my efforts at happiness into ensuring that everyone around me shares the experience. And in instances where I am unable to provide resolve to their matter at hand, I forbid myself from enjoying anything. It feels unfair - and that is my undying root... the one that breaks the driveway and pushes your house off of it's foundation. Not sure who to thank for that quality.

Right now, I'm assessing if anyone (sans family) - has ever cared about me to that extent. The fucked up thing, is that I've normalized it. I'm circling the fact that what I give, I want in return, like it's normal and healthy. I'm rationalizing that you shouldn't be happy if I am not happy. One of my friends is actively doing this (not towards me); and I repeatedly caution her on this behavior. I'm great at recognizing errant patterns, while insulating myself against self-awareness and self-care.

My desperation for solid friendship means that I cannot eliminate those that truly do not value me. Their life is unchanged by my presence in it, other than they have to devote time to coaxing my feckless brain back into a sleep state. I'm fully cognizant of how exhausting that must be. Incrementally, I am accepting that I will never be a normal person with or without therapy. There is not enough time. Whether it's the autism, or childhood abuse, or a lifetime of manipulation; I chose the pill of reality and I often wonder how good the steak could taste if it had been different? 

Should I have someone in my life that seemingly doesn't need me, should I expect to feel like I matter to someone? Is that vanity? I don't have casual relationships outside of co-worker scenarios. I don't see the value in sharing an exchange of energy if it isn't somehow transformative to us. When I fantasize about a relationship, all of my transgressions are a part of my machinations - I don't envision the care I want to receive, I imagine the care I could give to another. It's remarkable how little self-worth I've allowed myself. Over time I envision it as that gelatinous goo that was fed by anger in Ghostbusters II, or this growing black mass that inhabits my skin, slowly eradicating my healthy cells as it nurses on my darkest thoughts. 

Everything must be validated and instant; not for any other reason than I know, given time, I will fail. I will infect whatever it is with my cancer and prop up my self-worth until the whole thing is decayed. The idea that I rot a healthy thing with how I know to love is such a pernicious affirmation of my own failures I see myself as that circle in the Romanian forest where nothing will grow; haunted; cursed; dark; unnatural. 

That's really all I have to say right now. I'm not leaving anything on the table, truth is, I don't know why this week has been so bad. It could just be a side-effect of meds for all I know. I hope everyone is well and happy -

Crafting a Noose with a Spider’s Thread

 When leadership states that throwing money at a morale problem leaves you with a morale

problem and less money, I’m not hesitant to say that I agree with that statement. Rarely is it

purely money alone that has resulted in dissatisfaction at work. Certainly, a lack of capital can

give birth to any number of challenges on a personal level, and the job is directly tethered to that

lack of capital; but you don’t blame the car because you drove into a lake. A car in better

condition may have prevented the free car wash, but it didn’t make the decision on your behalf.

As I sit here in the office, I find myself questioning my belief system. Fresh off a raise, I feel like

things are possible. I am reminding myself that I had a similar euphoria after the last pay

increase, and that lasted just long enough to realize I was in much worse shape than I

anticipated. In fact, stretched beyond the pale and triggering the financial challenges I find

myself in now. This raise covers that… just. When the big acronym comes knocking, I’ve

already committed my tithe to a different financial overlord. A bridge I will cross hopefully later

than sooner.

I foolishly entertained the idea of getting out of Burnsville. Let’s say I did find somewhere closer

to the office… my guess is; I won’t find a landlord as comfortable with me as my current dwelling

owner; and my rent will likely go up in a year’s time; assuming I can have a year’s lease

somewhere. It’s reckless to give any weight to this idea. As much as I’d like to be closer to

where everything/everyone is, it comes with too many risks. Not to mention, I am in no condition

physically to move myself. The first thing I should be doing is making a list of priorities, and it

keeps falling through the cracks.

Gnawing at my brain almost constantly, are my parent’s mortality; my loneliness; and my own

mortality. It’s a snake eating its own tail… over and over. Take the knives to my skin; turn

positive attention into affection; talk to my parents – repeat. There’s a moment, it doesn’t arrive

right away. When it does surface, it’s brief at first; you can find forgiveness in yourself for the

apathy those things seeking attention. Those episodes of disconnection grow in span and

swallow up minutely larger moments and slowly peel away the layers of self-care. Eventually,

the malaise is the only affectation. Instead of sipping at the teat of sorrow, you can nest yourself

in its intoxicating embrace and drink its euphoric abandon. Veils fall away and gravity wins the

battle for our bones. It’s such a bizarre journey, and I often wonder what this looks like from the

other side. Obviously, it comes with a seasoning of pseudo-sympathies, and unpalatable

offerings of “hanging out”; it makes me question whether anyone shares these experiences?

How can we all be so inept at helping someone survive, when we practice it every day? What is

powerful enough to lead us from the forest? Instinctually, I’d say love – I think that’s a

conditional response; who can love us before we love ourselves; that’s a conditional statement

as well. Everything sounds so rehearsed, an orchestration of phrases and machinations that

usher in equal amounts contempt and belittlement.

Do you think I remember how well I crafted repeating waves of inadequacy that last time I found

myself here? Perhaps the weight of how little creativity was spawned gives me pause; but I’m

more inclined to seek out the devices of my torture and how I allowed them to redefine my bank

account, my inclinations, and my self-esteem. Nothing feels quite as good as fucking yourself to

death.

After 51 years, nearly 52; I feel like I should have either learned to understand how people see

me or not care how people see me. Neither are true. What is obvious from anyone that dare

speak to me; I will elucidate my thoughts about you in whatever level of detail I deem

unnecessary. I’m very adept at offering answers to questions no one asked.

All in all, nothing much has changed in 20 months. Situations have circled themselves around

me, and I don’t feel it. There’s no escape there; and I had put too much stock in the idea that a

normal relationship with someone would be a path to healing. That’s probably not true, and I

can’t have a normal relationship with someone, so it’s a moot point. Occupational hazards of

being close to me includes a lot of scale tipping; animating the corpse of a singular moment;

tallying the transgressions to give the strength needed to push steel across flesh. When the

boat arrives at the shore, it seems an almost certainty that a random heroin dose would

evacuate the soul. I probably shouldn’t write that; Fentanyl makes accidental overdoses a

complex uncertainty.

Because I am writing this at work, the system is counting my words… I feel so proficient. Eight-

hundred and fifty four; in case you felt compelled to count for yourself. I just gave you some time

back in your day.

I will close now; maybe check my email.

Listening to: Hugh Laurie – “Let Them Talk”

The Mockery of my Failure

 I don't know if weird is the correct summation of this week, but it's probably the word I would use to describe this week if it happened to someone else... like me; that's probably important to note. Weirdly appropriate... too? Look at me breaking structure rules.

It's Friday, the minutes slipping off the hour at a pace I would compare to dropping a feather from a 40-story building. Using any sort of specificity in this post would be ill-advised, but I'd rather write while I feel like it, even if it's at the expense of understanding later. At this very moment, my cat is only now within feet of me, so I may be on the path of forgiveness. We did watch 2 hours of Bird TV today, that, and "the special" food, we may be friends again by nightfall. This is not a travel cat, or, if she was, that is now broken after several trips to the vet and a visit with mom that went sideways. Blixa had me play "I Hate My Sister" by Juliana Hatfield at least 7 times in a row in the car. 

But seriously, "why was your week weird?"

Do you know how when someone is a stranger and all that you know about them is that they have an intoxicating laugh and a good sense of humor, "Germany-something", and they are related to the family... but you invade on their space anyway. "Sought out" is a little misleading, I think. "Threw caution out"... I'd lean into that probably. Why would I do that? Those rare impulsive instances that arrive without much notice, and are so foreign, that they are attacked by the white blood cells, but not before that first email leaves your fingers.

Meeting someone that would validate my autism ideas was not on my radar. I'm still sort of processing what she said, and questioning what happens when I know. I have this idea that any therapist I'd eventually see would need to know this; and I'm guessing at best that I am on the spectrum. A lot lines up, but I'm fully capable of chasing ghosts. I'm not fully sure what to do with this; it just is present now. It's enjoyable, it's rewarding, it's attention, but it seems frail, and I shouldn't drive the car.

With the recent past, I have no idea what it is. Three or four words a week but we're still close? We are still needing different things; and maybe this is just a wall I shouldn't try to climb, maybe I should just turn around? It's fucking painful, that's really all I know.

Work is fully abnormal, aside from finding a fellow weirdo. I have to be in the office once every other week now; a reality that sort of just crashed in through the front door of this cat condo without warning. Maybe this new interaction is my coping mechanism? Raises are finally on a horizon, and not soon enough. The bad people came knocking and they want their money. I feel like I'm 20 again and falling through every crack I can find. It's difficult to not think about how it took two incomes to tread water. Maybe if we didn't have debt, or cars, or phones - we would have managed to get ahead, but we did have those "luxuries" and I guess reality really sets in when the income becomes one.

This post didn't turn into the fluid recollection I thought it would be.