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”
