One layer

A number of terms have been tossed around which I find more confusing when used by other people to describe certain aspects of me than when I examine them in an attempt to understand myself.

It is cold, and I am constantly reminding myself that a moment ago I was not sad, and nothing has changed. Therefore my mind is making me sad, or I am making myself sad. Some of the time this is effective. The rest of the time- including now- I accept it and wait.

Sloughing off the job I've just left, in the sense of the way in which I envision my life in general, feels somehow both significant and superficial. A small but vital improvement, since it was growing increasingly difficult for me to cope with everything it entailed: the confusion of supervisors, the disorganization, the screams and threats and abuse from patients and staff alike, the incessant and ridiculous dependence of co-workers on me for knowledge they never bothered to acquire, the apparent expectation that I would train a far-better-compensated man to do my job so that he could tell me I was doing my job incorrectly, and so very much more. The load is slightly lessened; most of those things are not factors in my new position.

Hope is present, even if I can't see it clearly.

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vacances

Last week my family and I vacated to the Cape, where I tried hard to be agreeable and not spend my days catching up on sleep and reading in solitude, which to me constitutes restful leisure, but this is not the purpose of vacation in my family. Rather it seems to be togetherness at all costs, which, when it succeeds, is wonderful, but when it breaks down, is incredibly unpleasant. Much of the week after an initial fight on Monday was spent either enduring or awaiting further upsets while pretending nothing had happened. For once, it didn't feel like it was directly somehow my fault, but as usual, I did intervene. It didn't help, and given that the actual underlying source of the argument is deeply embedded in the personalities of the involved parties, I don't think things could've been helped.

After I helped him vacuum the unfortunate wineglass (an unusual occurrence; violence of any type other than verbal is rare, and even that is wrapped in cushioning layers so as not to seem what it frequently is) out of the carpet, Dad and I sat on the sun porch for some time, talking very little and listening to the sounds of the others going to bed. Watching me cry without sound, he said quietly, "I wish you weren't so sad," and I felt then that I had let him down, underscoring his helplessless to fix anything, a helplessness which always hurts me more than my own and more than anyone else's. I have the sense that he knows, probably better than anyone, why I am so sad, and feels the least able to do anything about it- not that anyone anymore can, or should, except myself. But it is painful to have reminded him, and I regret it having done so when I could have hidden it, but did not try.

It was heavenly to see our friends, to be around people who have known me since before I was born and who (in the case of my godparents) are not so reserved as to avoid showing that they care. My godmother noticed me kneading the side of my neck which refuses to heal, and gave me an impromptu back massage which was better than a long hug; she always takes special care to look me in the eyes and give me a little shake as we say goodbye and remind me that she loves me. It makes me shy and feel slightly overwhelmed because it's so unlike anyone else's interaction with me, even my parents, who although loving, are not always able to behave lovingly.

Poor girl in the coffeeshop probably thinks I'm slightly nuts as I go to find another napkin, having saturated the one I had with stupid tears, but the more recent ones were happy, at least. Mostly so, anyway. I wish I knew more people (or rather anyone else) like my godmother, and feel like I should go apprentice myself to her to learn how to live like she does. I have the feelings, but not at present the capability, to embrace the world as she does, and wonder if taking up one of her suggestions to come hide out at her place for awhile might not be the best thing I could do to replenish my reserves of giving, which have felt extremely depleted from lack of any return from those to whom I have given or approval from those to whom I would- making it particularly difficult to be open to new opportunities.

...a fight is breaking out between a guy who walked in seven minutes before closing and an employee now, so discretion/valor: I'm guessing it's time to flee. Maybe more tomorrow.

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mute.

...so. A few people from various quarters have written me some very nice things lately. It makes me grateful- I wrote happy, but erased it, because what can I say? "Happy" is an incredibly ephemeral state, and I don't lay claim to it, despite being fortunate enough to have moments of joy, or just enjoyment, now and then in response to some stimulus. My mood has been variably shitty in the past ... while. Enough so that even were the usual stage fright- prompted when someone makes basically any sort of positive-ish response towards something I've done or said- not an issue, I would still have the problem of not being able to stay in a good enough state of mind to be able to write an entire reply. A few nice sentences, and then a sharp left turn at self-deprecation, followed by an uncontrolled swerve into bitterness.


And while there's no little voice that literally says, "you don't deserve to know anyone who has a chance of genuinely liking you. You don't deserve to have people be nice to you," there may as well be, for I do believe it, when you come down to it.

Not that it should matter- what does any of it ever come to, after all? But this hasn't yet stopped mattering. I suppose than in the midst of everything else, I should let myself be glad for that, even if I don't have any idea what to do with it.

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An experiment

The cords to my scanner are in the storage bin, I think, so instead of a semi-crappy scan, we have a very-crappy photo. The eye on the left was pretty much ruined by a glare from the lamp which I couldn't fix no matter where I positioned it.



I mistrust my skill in handling color, even when working in oil paints, and I never made myself learn to use colored pencils correctly. I don't think I've touched any in the past ten years. But I found myself picking up a pack of them the other day with the feeling that I had better learn to work with them, or give up any hope of progressing further in general. I could tinker endlessly with line and shading and improve technically without coming any closer to being able to accomplish what I want, which is to give form to personality as accurately as I can see and depict it. Not only hue, but whole shades of meaning are lost or at least altered when there is an involuntary restriction such as a limitation to black and white. I was afraid they would always be beyond my reach because I don't have a natural understanding of how to use colors. But this is not as discouraging as I was expecting. It's just possible that I might be able to learn.

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ought

I don't honestly know the use of trying, except for the lack of alternatives which are actually alternatives, and the chance of helping someone whose heart hasn't given up.

In the past day or so my thoughts have hovered around the fact that my reason for existence seems to be a combination of indulging a handful of what I think are relatively modest desires, an essential clinging to immodest and improbable dreams, and a sense of obligation to be of use, to relieve suffering in compensation for that which I inevitably cause, a moral compulsion which I am unable to kill despite a long-lived resentment for those things that have been done to me for which no apology or comfort is ever likely to come. I wish I could kill it, or else find a way to sacrifice the desires instead, as well as the one or two dreams which make drastic life choices less appealing because of what doors they might close. I cannot shake the burden of what seems to be conscience, and I don't know exactly what to do with it, either. No amount of reasoning successfully convinces me that I ought to do anything other than everything I can, though the demands of making a living and the wealth of frivolous distractions my comparatively privileged life provides do a good job of muffling the voice of the moral imperative.

When I have my own attention, though, and distractions have temporarily failed, I know clearly that I do want to answer that voice with an unequivocal yes. The troubling question is whether I have anything of value to offer- how to decide what to offer- and how to educate myself so that neither it nor I am wasted. I don't know how to make that determination yet.

It's so late, and I've lost an hour more than usual. Would write more, but must go to bed in order not to guarantee myself a foul mood and a headache to take to work.

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important:

Recognizing that at times my tone can be rather lackluster, I have added via Cornify the ability for readers to inject as much sparkle and glitter into this blog as they think it requires. You're welcome.

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it goes

Because of my schedule at work and its basic inflexibility, I've had to give up being in the show, something which I'm just sort of trying not to dwell upon too much. It's useless to do so, anyway.

But, one positive thought... I did renew an acquaintance which might, with a little luck and effort, expand a bit- an interesting girl who I first encountered in the young adult circle at church. During our few meetings before, I was reasonably sure she disliked me (moreso than the usual utter-lack-of-interest that I usually sense from casual interactions with people my age) but this seems as though it may not be the case. From some preliminary conversations, it sounds like we have some points of upbringing and tastes (classical music, music in general integrated with lifestyle, austere mode of living that isn't solely due to poverty) in common. I was not left, afterwards, feeling as though I had again exposed myself as a freak for having mentioned one or two genuine opinions, so it seems worthy of consideration for that point alone.

I suppose the most surprising moment came when we were talking about past roles we had played, and I told her about the last play at college, where I was Horatio to Eric's Hamlet. And she said it was one of her favorites, a great role, and that she at times had been Horatio for others, and had a few Horatios in her life as well. For all the discussions I've ever had about the play and the character, I had not heard someone say exactly that about themselves or others, except in my own thoughts, where I have alternately wondered and given up wondering why that is always the role I seem to play in my friendships, if they have the chance to grow at all deep. It may be as simple as ensuring that it is my giving that matters, so that I develop no dependence upon receiving or vulnerability to the inevitable withholding. I am envious of those who are able to grow confident of others' loyalty or commitment, at least while other factors make the friendship feasible, and I envied her briefly for saying she had been able to have it both ways. But maybe I could learn something from her.

The difficulty with interesting people is that they typically have no more room in their lives for newcomers who don't immediately serve any specific purpose, and I'm not the sort who can make more than one or two attempts to clear some space for myself on the off-chance that we might get along as friends. I don't mind setting aside my pride a little bit in order to take the first step, especially since I know from experience that no one will be doing it for me unless they are male (usually) and want something. Past a certain point, though, it's just embarrassing. I'm a little weary at the moment of being embarrassed in that way, written off, politely ignored. So I suppose we'll see.

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Impulses

This came into my head all at once the other night, and its particularly stilted language, which I have left unedited, is a consequence of the fact that I could barely write quickly enough to round out the idea on paper.


The thing that I am finding, and coming to recognize as a comprehensive truth in the way I process the world, is that I have no true comprehension of the idea of "enough". While it is possible to become temporarily sickened of a thing, I do not know satiety in any form, and once my mind has identified a thing as good and has formed a desire for it, it wil not die until something happens to prove the thing not worthy of desiring. So while my mind considers a thing good, it will always crave it, and wish to have it to excess. It seems to be this way for every sort of object or feeling I experience. There are the obvious troubles such as a ceaseless craving for food or liquor- and indeed I am never not hungry or not desirous of drink, in my mind at least, however distended my stomach or throbbing my head. The only time I feel the slightest relief from the anxiety that is bound up in the hunger is when I have far more of a thing than I need. Consuming a pint of ice cream, for example, is not nearly so reassuring as having a freezer full of untouched ice cream. My actual capacity for consumption is fairly small, but it increases in inverse proportion to the availability of what I would consume. So if I try to obtain and consume a little bit of a thing at a time, I will always want more and more of it, and consequently obtain and consume more than if I had an endless quantity readily available to me, and did not have to worry that the next might be the last.
I am always thinking of the time when the things I desire will be ended or exhausted. I am haunted by the idea that at the end of my own life, nothing will have been enough. The eventual loss of those I love is difficult to contemplate for this reason alone- how can my memories of them, when my memory is little better than a broken basket for containing the things I would have it hold, how can they possibly begin to comfort me for the fact that I can have no more? I have had my family for twenty-six years, and if it were ten times that, I do not know if I could love them enough. I see no way of being reconciled to that, and know I have no choice anyway. I cannot live long enough for all the things I want to do, and feel certain of amounting to far less than I have been given, whenever my final accounting comes. Although I do not expect to have to pay for it once I am gone, I am possessed by sadness at the recurring thought that someone else might, or that they might have less repayment than they deserve for their kindness to, or faith in me.

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A little more human

Very gradually, and in small but encouraging ways, my situation seems to be improving (though in others which I can't yet talk about, it is worse.) I can't claim that hard work has paid off, because I've done nothing new to account for it- and I can't pretend to have been particularly patient because most nights in the past several months I've gone to bed worn out by dull despair- but luck has decided in my favor more than usual lately, and it is a very welcome change. I need to find something to do in order to express my gratitude for it, and will when my schedule settles a little more.

The first way is a silly thing: I've been cast after all in the chorus of the show for which I auditioned last month, and will start rehearsals next week. The strange, instant camaraderie of being a part of a cast, usually linked together by nothing more than a common purpose and interest, has always provided me with a sense of being included that I have rarely felt elsewhere (and too often in more casual social situations, it has been clear that there was no place for me, or role to play, no matter how willing I was or qualified to fill it.) I have undoubtedly been fortunate enough in the past to work with some wonderful people who found it a pleasure to welcome me rather than a burden, and I can't expect this always to be the case. But from what I've heard of this group, I might have that chance again. It's been almost four years since Hamlet, my last show- and now that I write that, I can't believe it. How can I possibly have made the series of choices necessary to deprive me of one of the things I love most in the world for four years? Honestly, I don't know.

The second way is a small thing, almost a nothing, but of significance to me: a few words from the man I consider to be my closest friend, even though months frequently go by between communications. Three, almost four months of this most recent silence. I worry for him sometimes nearly as much as I care about him, and so hearing that he is alive, well enough, and remembers me from time to time is a comfort.

The third way is almost purely practical, and I probably shouldn't even be as happy about it as I am, except I can't help it. Part of me really was afraid I might not find a place to live, at least not one where I would feel safe, or one that wouldn't be so expensive as to send me deeper into debt. But the place I found is beautiful, and shockingly cheap considering the size and location. I'll do my real rejoicing when the papers are all signed, but I will have a key tomorrow and a place to sleep that isn't borrowed or resented.

Simple things, but enough to renew my sense of hope and restore me a bit. Especially needed now.

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