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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Miles to go

In the past couple of days, I've slowly come to realize that to detach and uproot in order to begin the next phase of life elsewhere, while possible to do logically and productively, is not something I can yet do responsibly- I would not be able to afford it in all the ways that are important to me. Another year seems like a significant amount of time only because of the increase in my age, nothing more, and it actually seems as though the last twelve months have rushed by without making any real mark on me at all. Somewhat more diminished by disappointment, slightly more bitter, and rather more detached after a number of rejections. These aren't the sorts of things that permanently warp the spirit, provided, of course, that at some point, the slow tide flows the other way. I have no logical reason to keep hoping, given that the majority of happiness in my life has been due to luck, and not the results of my focus and effort. Things that would happen, I'm sure, whether I hoped they would or not. I have not in any way deserved them, and it is possible that I will never be in such a situation as to be considered to deserve anything better than what falls to me by chance. I understand that even if this is the case, I'll be better off than most people in general, and that it's only in comparison to those I know and those of whom I am typically aware that my life seems lacking. But comparisons of that kind are seldom logical, and so they can only hurt, never help.

The likelihood that I won't deserve whatever good might someday be in store for me does not excuse me from trying. Nor does it give me the right to escape. Now there are nights when I feel so desperate that I am essentially paralyzed by sensations of worthlessness and futility, and helpless to do anything more than cry until the sky lightens and takes away the choice of being or not as the imminent necessity of pulling together and continuing on overpowers through guilt and shame the question of "what for". If I left now, it would only be a more acceptable form of suicide in that nothing would be decisively accomplished except a change of scene. I have things that are best fixed here first, because I don't want to be burdened with them, wherever I do go.

So, this is another disappointment, in a way, but at least it's the result of a decision I made. I will be compensating myself for the delay in other ways. Letting myself have time to volunteer is one, perhaps the biggest... I'm not sure of the others yet, but nothing that depends upon the approval of others. I can't win that, so I have no reason not to do as I like within the bounds of my conscience.

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One thing I'm feeling:

There isn't any answer.

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