The past few months have been rough. I'm an extrovert with no friends, and no time to make them. My extroverted self is desperate for connection, and it bleeds out at work. I'm overexcited, I exaggerate, I pick up little packages of people before I move on to the next job.
Subsequently, my job is suffering. I'm in the worst 20% of everyone out there, my jobs, while close to perfect, are still scoring worse than sloppy jobs (of which I blame my manager, a perfectionist man with no more reward for honesty and hard work than double-talk and cutting corners). I don't get the opportunity to really grow, socially speaking.
And I'm introverted just enough that I don't like smalltalk, pointless encounters, shallow discussion. Every interesting person I meet keeps me at arm's length--as well would I--because I'm a guest, performing a function, in their house on a professional basis. it isn't a time to make friends. It's a time to smile, do the job, and be done.
Furthermore this effects my writing on a fundamental level. Today was the first day I put a real strong, hard-hitting effort into writing again (and not just proofreading my work). I sat down with the intent to write a chapter, began to write, and stopped. "What am I doing?" I asked. It hurt.
Given the fact I'm inspired daily by Aspen (even though we aren't setting aside enough time for each other lately, in my opinion) while living eight hundred miles away from her, I've been wrestling with some angry thoughts lately.
I want to quit my job. I have no backup, and I have no way to pay the bills, so I haven't. And I won't until something else is in place. If I'm fired, so be it. I'll walk with the knowledge that I was the best tech a person can be--and my work, and work ethic, reflects it. I want to push all that disgusting shit away from me, remove the mindless, soul-carving stress out of my life and start over in a new place, new apartment, new job, new dreams and prospects.
I want to move. I want out of St. Louis--which is currently a graveyard of dreams where all the things I moved out here for have gone. It's a nightmare without form, a strange fear with no insight. I come home to an apartment that is great--affordable, spacious enough for one person (or three on select weekends), and close to a park--but the underside of it still lingers. It doesn't remind me of Her. It reminds me of me, back then, and all those things I fought for when picking this apartment up. The job is included in this. I picked up that job so she and I could be stable, we could settle, etc. I'm staring at a job I hate (which I knew was part of the plan, 100%, when I signed up for it) with nothing to show for it but money I'm too stupid to save and too depressed to spend wisely.
So, yeah. I've been fighting depression lately. I got powerfully sick a few weeks ago, after drinking 10 beers in a sitting. Which, given my diabetes, was a lot. I didn't do it alone, in the dark corner of my family room, crying my eyes out or anything--it was with Aspen, and I loved it, and had a whole lot of fun--but the alcohol poisoning hangover I had the next day scared the shit out of me.
And since then, my diabetes has been strangely out of whack. I'm scared to talk to Aspen about it, and I don't know why. Possibly because she's been very focused on her own life, and possibly because I don't feel she deserves to hear it.
I'm trying to read, but I can't. I'm trying to write, but I can't. I gave up artificial sweeteners for lent to try and clear my fuzzy head and be more healthy, and it's working for the most part. I'm drinking more coffee and water, and instead of my previously "normal" Nutty Bar and can of Dr. Pepper 10 for breakfast, I'm eating a granola, a banana, and a bottle of water. It's filling me with a natural energy, which is a relief, but I'm still fighting that funk.
I'm just working too hard, and too much. My long term goals are shot, save for paying down my debt (which is great and all, but allows for NO reward motivation), and although I want a job in Colorado, closer to Aspen, over 45 applications later, I still have no prospects.
I need help and I don't know how to ask. Who to ask. When to ask. I've asked myself, over and over, and have tried to improve as much as I can. I only drink alcohol sparingly, and once a week. I don't drink diet sodas. I'm eating healthier, focusing more on my writing dreams, forcing myself out of my shell to socialize wherever I can. I've asked God, all the sublimations thereof, and given myself over to whatever thought process allows deep, inner peace despite the surrounding environment. I've attained that peace, at times. It allows me to continue forward. But currently it's not enough.
I'm doing good things. I have a lot I SHOULD be thankful for. But that's not how depression works, and that's not how a dead motivation works. I'm thankful for those in my life. They're worth killing for. My brothers, family, Aspen. I'm thankful for my job, being able to pay my bills, make ends meet in this shitty-as-hell economy. I'm currently poised to spend the rest of my life doing hard labor for a company that might recognize me with an embroidered ashtray when I turn fifty--the American dream, no? In the '20's, people would've killed to be in my place.
But I don't value money. I don't worship it, or dream about it, or wash in it or stare at it or think about it. I value people, and self-centeredness, and inner strength. Which, I thought, would get me where I needed to go. And it hasn't. And I won't start worshipping it now. I worship a higher power than that. And whatever is governed by man.
While I worked a few days ago, the ending to Red Wing Black came to me. I barely remember it, which is great because I wrote it down. It's Shane, the main character, talking about people in general:
I think we're all dead to each other, in a way. We're handfuls of memory, from the past, that collect more memories as time continues on. It is impossible to know a person in the present because that person is already gone, changed, impacted by you. All we can do is hold tighter the past, or let go.
And that moment of memory creation isn't so important. Not really. It's just that catalyst. It's the needle puncturing the skin. The needle-tip isn't so important in an observable sense. The blood, the popped flesh, infinitely moreso. It's why we can see an old friend we haven't seen for ten years, see one glance of that dynamic, amazing needle-tip, and not need to see anything else of it. Because all the blood is still there. The flesh is still open from when they entered our lives. And it's so fucking beautiful, we don't have to collect more memories. We're already happily dead together.
Then we simply exist, side by side. Walking bodies, with memories in our wake. We're all just collections of memories projected.
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