Why The Rage?

I was talking to the guy I live with about relationships. He doesn't want to ever get married again, or even live with someone, because he thinks he'll be "trapped". He said he can name "about 50 guys" who feel trapped in a marriage that they don't want to be in, because they're afraid of the financial consequences of leaving. I tried to tell him that there are plenty of happily married people - I know at least a dozen - and if the right person comes along, you won't feel trapped, you'll feel like it's the right thing to do. He disagreed, which is fair.

But then he said that I don't know what it's like to be "trapped" in a marriage that's not working. I told him that I damned well DO know. I told him that he's not the only one who's been divorced - I have, too - and that I know how it feels to be stuck in a house with someone who doesn't love you, and how you feel there are few options. He said "you were only married for a year and a half". At that point, I lost it.

It made me really angry, and I told him that it was bullshit that just because I wasn't married for 10 years, that I don't know what it's like. I did something I've never done to him before - I threw an empty can down, I yelled at him (I told him he was full of shit, and that it was bullshit that he was discounting my experiences), and then I stormed off. I went to take a shower, and I was not surprised that I was angry - I hate it when people tell me I don't know what I'm talking about WHEN I DO - but I was shocked at how angry I was. I was enraged, and that disturbed me.

Why would I get so angry at that comment? What is this really about? I can't be THAT mad at him - it really wasn't that big a deal. So why would that set me off like that? What unresolved issues do I have that would make me react like that? It obviously pushed one of my buttons, but there must be something in my own head that would make me that angry. It's pretty clear that it's not about him or what he said, it's about what's going on in my own head. I guess what's most upsetting about the rage I felt was that I don't know why I reacted that way. I do know that it has far more to do with me than him, but I don't know what the issue is in my own head. So why the rage? Why?

I have tried to accept what is, to do the Buddhist thing and not let stupid stuff get to me, and yet I get all bent out of shape when someone tells me I don't know what I'm talking about. The whole thing disturbs me, because I thought I'd let go of a lot of my anger in the past year, and yet there is obviously still a lot of it. Why? And more importantly, why can't I let it go?

Quitting Time?

"Drove back to town this morning, with working on my mind. I thought of maybe quitting, thought of leaving it behind."

- The Tragically Hip, "Bobcaygeon"


Once again, I'm in a creative funk. Call it being out of gas, call it writer's block, but once again, I've got nothing. Apart from my ongoing financial train wreck, my life's pretty good right now. But I have been unable to write very much, and what I have written is unspeakably bad. So now, as I think about writing, I wonder, is it time to quit?

I'm not sure which is worse, being unable to write, or being unable to write anything that doesn't suck. Some days, I feel as if I was put on this Earth to write. Yet 95% of what I write is terrible. Am I supposed to just be a crappy writer? That has little appeal for me. Other days, like today, I feel like it's all a joke. I'm not a writer, I'm just some hack pretending to be one.

Man, I can't even get this blog post to make any sense.

Maybe I write for the wrong reasons. Maybe I'm just looking for approval from people. Maybe the writing isn't as important to me as the idea of "being a writer". Maybe that's just how I like to define myself, or present myself to the world. "Oooh, look at me, I'm a writer!" I don't know. Today, though, I feel like a fraud. I'm like the Wizard of Oz, an old charlatan who hides behind an illusion.

Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain! I am the great and powerful Oz!

So, should I quit writing? Is it quitting time, time to put down the pen for good? I don't know. Maybe I'll just put writing aside for a while and see how I feel later. Maybe I shouldn't decide once and for all right now. All I can say is that thinking about this makes me depressed, but that's what I do. I depress myself. I am the heart of my darkness.

"The sky was dull, and hypothetical, and falling one cloud at a time..."

Paralyzed

Fear leaks from my dark heart like thick, black poison, rendering me immobile. I am paralyzed by my fear. I am faced with several major decisions in my life right now, and I cannot decide, because I'm too afraid of making the wrong choices. As always, I hide, I avoid, and I put off deciding until I am forced to. As always, I hate myself for not having the courage to take action. Once again, I let fear chain me to the floor in a dark room, and I am the heart of that darkness. I have no-one to blame for my incarceration but me.

It's hard not to feel helpless and stupid and cowardly. It's hard not to sink into despair again. I'm trying not to let the darkness of my heart consume my life once again, but I feel paralyzed by fear and despair. I know I could improve things if I could just take action, but what to do? Which path to take? And what if it's the wrong one?

I am lost in a forest at night. I'm too scared to try to find my way out, for fear of going down the wrong path, so I stand still, alone in the darkness, paralyzed.

Father's Day, Indecision, And The Curse Of Hope

I wanted to write some stuff on Father's Day, but life intervened. I know it's a few days later, but it's not too late to say that I hate Father's Day.

I've never gotten along with my dad, but the last few years have been worse than usual, and I've had enough of him. People asked me what I planned to do for him on the big day, and most were surprised and dismayed when I replied, "nothing". I have better things to do with my time than interact with my dad, so I didn't even call him. That's not what makes me depressed. What saddens me is the people I know who get along with their fathers. I get jealous and depressed when friends talk about spending time with their dads. I wonder what it's like to have a dad who isn't selfish, verbally abusive and actually wants to be around his offspring.

I also feel uncomfortable on Father's Day, getting a gift and a card from my daughter. She made a really nice card this year, made out to "the world's greatest dad". I am not comfortable with that description. I know, I know, I'm the best in her eyes, but I cannot help but feel that I am unworthy of such praise. She's a smart girl, and one of these days, she's going to figure out that I am not really the greatest. It saddens me. I do the best I can, but I worry, constantly, that it's not good enough.

My indecision depresses me, too. When faced with a choice or an opportunity, I rarely make up my mind until I am forced to. I have an opportunity to purchase one of three different crappy used cars, and I've spent weeks humming and hawing and consulting friends, and I still cannot make up my mind. It's fear, of course. I'm always afraid that whatever decision I make will be the wrong one. That applies to every decision I make, whether it be about jobs, relationships, or even something simple like shopping for clothes (which I hate). In this case, I do have a good reason to be hesitant - the last three choices I made concerning cars were all bad ones. One car was a money pit, and the other two had their engines blow up. So I worry that whatever car I end up buying will explode, spewing fluids all over the road. But my inability to decide depresses me.

I wish I could be more cynical. I wish that I were truly without hope, that I could simply accept that nothing I do will turn out right. But faced with unexpected opportunities, I find myself full of hope that maybe this time, things will turn out right. Sometimes they do, but usually, they don't, and I end up hating myself for getting my hopes up again, only to see them dashed. Sometimes, I think hope is a curse.

Of course, I have been truly hopeless before, and it led to crushing despair and thoughts of suicide. I don't want to go down that road again, so it's possible hope is not a bad thing. I struggle to do the Zen thing and accept things as they are, but it's hard, struggling against my dark, dark heart. It's hard.

Idiocy

Sunday I took my daughter down to Spencer Smith Park in Burlington. It's a nice park by the lake. It should be nice, after all the money Burlington spent on it. We were down at the tiny beach area, and Hannah was running back and forth, laughing and dodging the incoming waves. It was a beautiful moment.

Not far away, two women were on the beach while their toddler played at the edge of the water. The girl looked about 18 months old, maybe 2 years. She wandered over to a point where she was closer to me than to the two women (I assumed one of them was her mother). I was mostly watching my daughter, but this small girl was in my peripheral vision most of the time.

The girl tripped and fell into the water face first. The waves were not big, but they were big enough that she couldn't stand back up. She was only face-down in the water and struggling for a few moments before her mother ran over and fished her out. The little girl was fine. She coughed a bit, but hadn't seemed to inhale any water. She was a little scared, but minutes later, she was playing and laughing again. It was a scary moment, but it ended well.

Why am I telling you this? Because I saw it all happen, and STOOD THERE LIKE AN IDIOT! I could have jumped in and picked the girl up myself - I was no more than six feet from her, and closer than her mother was. Instead, like a fucking stunned monkey, I just stood there and watched. I DON'T KNOW WHY! One would think I would have acted when someone's kid fell in the fucking lake, but no. I just stood there, and I assume I had a dopey, semi-retarded look on my face.

What's the point of this humiliating story? I hate myself, that's the point. I had a chance to jump in and help someone, and instead, I just stood there. Since then, all I can think about is what happened, and how, if the two women hadn't been paying attention, something horrible might have happened right in front of me.

This is apparently what I do. Opportunities come by, and I just stand there while someone else acts. Opportunities to meet women, to get a different job, to get a car, to do things, come along, and I just let them pass by, and spend days or weeks regretting my inaction. Life passes me by while I just STAND AROUND AND WATCH IT FUCKING HAPPEN! God forbid I should ever come across someone seriously injured or trapped in a burning car! I'll probably stare at them stupidly while they bleed or burn to death!

Life is full of opportunities, and I sit in a dark room with the curtains drawn, staring into the abyss that is my blackened soul. Hell is a life not lived.

Is It The Medication?

I wonder if the antidepressant I am on has strangled my creativity and disposed of the corpse. I know that one side effect of my medication is lethargy. I am well aware of the lack of physical energy I have dealt with since I started taking this drug, but I only thought about the mental aspect today. Perhaps my sluggishness has extended to my brain.

That is very depressing, if it's true. Depressing, because I can't stop taking the drug. I tried once - I went four months without it - and could not sleep. I was hoping that the sleeplessness was merely a withdrawal symptom, and after a month or two, my sleep would return to normal. No such fucking luck. Four and a half months after going off my antidepressant, I had to go back on it, not because I was depressed (my life was going OK at that point), but because I could only sleep when I was completely exhausted, and even then only for a few hours. So unfortunately, quitting the medication is not an option.

I guess that means my ability to write is gone for good. How very sad. I wasn't good at it, though I had my moments of brilliance, but at least I could do it. Now I've got nothing, and I seriously think it may be the drug that's doing it to me.

I feel dead inside, dark and hollow and empty. If I am dead inside, if my ability to write is gone, then why should I bother with being alive? If I'm not here to write, then why am I here at all? And no, this blog doesn't count as writing, because it is not fiction. It is all too true. How sad. How very sad.

I'm Sick Of Being Alive

Here's a list of reasons I'm sick of being alive. I give you this list for no reason, other than the darkness of which I am the heart.

My feet and my knees hurt. All the time.
I have no car.
My ex-wife wants $1500 from me, and I have no idea how I'm going to get it.
My allergies are killing me.
I hate spring.
I have a loser job.
Apparently, I subconsciously want my loser job.
I try, but I can't stop being a selfish jerk.
Someday soon, my daughter will figure out what a chump I am.
I can't sleep well. I haven't slept well for months.
I'm tired all the time.
I know I should shut up and quit whining, but I'm addicted to whining.
I'm a coward.
I'm afraid of failure, but I'm terrified of success.
Most of my old high school friends are married. Nobody but me is divorced.
I know it's stating the obvious, given the content of this blog, but I'm a very bad writer.
I'm getting old, and aging sucks.
My other blogs suck worse than this one.
I don't have enough money.
I'm angry about a lot of things, and there's not a goddamned thing I can do about any of them.
I hate my medication, but I can't stop taking it because I can't sleep without it.
The rest of my life is going to be like this, only with steadily deteriorating physical health.
I'm sick of thinking up lists like this all the time.

What a blog I have! I suck out loud. I leave you with a bit of Shakespeare's MacBeth.

"Out, out, brief candle! Life is but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing."