Sometimes, I’m not sure I exist. I forget that people can see me. Living so far behind my eyes that the person that walks around in this skin seems to be someone else. She is the person that goes through the motions of life. She is the person who eats, and breathes and drives and looks for work, while I sit back, way back inside her head and try not to get in the way.
But then we go out and I am reminded that people can see me and even more so that I want to be seen. I want to exist closer to the world. But I can’t seem to get hooked in.
I am interested to understand if there really is a skills gap or if there is a mismatch between what is called a skill and what is not. If employers think a specific software is a skill, they may be overlooking employees who have the knowledge and experience to shrink the gap between knowing the required software and meeting the business need.
You can only get to the good of the movie by sitting through the 1st half of it. Only after the second half, does the 1st half fit. It makes sense in the end. And becomes a really good movie. But the first part felt so self-conscious and aware of itself and the movies musicals that came before it.
I’m a fan of musicals so I wanted to like it. Ryan Gosling can sing and his voice is really nice. Emma Stone was okay as well. The music composition had to do more heavy lifting than should have been required. The music was gorgeous and absolutely made itself the third character in the film. Thank goodness for that.
It’s not just sad. Though I most often use that word. The word “depression” has lost some of its meaningfulness as a way of explaining what this beast is that accompanies me.
There’s this scene in Cool Hand Luke where Paul Newman is fighting with George Kennedy and he’s being pounded but he won’t stay down. Luke can barely stand, hardly raise his arms anymore but he won’t stay down on the ground and let it be over. Sometimes my depression is like that.
There this scene in Mash where Painless the dentist decides that he would rather die than go on living. Hawkeye and the gang plan a funeral charade for him. Painless preps himself, climbs in the coffin, takes his pill and waits to die. Lt. Dish “helps” him out in the midnight hour and Painless wakes up the next morning and goes about his business like the evening never happened. Sometimes my depression is like that.
There is this scene in the Color Purple where Mr. runs Nettie away from Celie and Nettie stands in the road as he pelts her with stones. She screams, with her arms raised and hands open, she screams “Why!!?? Why?” Sometimes my depression is like that. It’s not just sad.
Sometimes I ask why; sometimes I’d like to just lay down and die but most often I just keep getting up barely standing, worn out and beaten. I am unwilling to lose to the beast. It can walk with me if it must, but it won’t ever win. Just so you know.
I made a promise July30, 1995 and July 31,2016 is my test.
There are days where gratitude for Xina in my life are enough to shove her absence aside for a moment and there are moments in those same days when her absence stuns me into silence.
I can’t decide if I need an answer to this question. I am doing a lot of sitting. Thinking. I keep doing things that I think I should do to get to the next thing I will be doing. Then all of a sudden, I feel the question “what’s the point?” And I can’t come up with a suitable, sustainable response.
what’s the point of continuing to pay the mortgage on this house. why not just let it go and shoot myself in the head? then no more questions about what’s the point. or figuring out what to do next so that I can keep paying the mortgage on this house or any house for that matter.
move from here to some other place I’ll have to keep up with. doesn’t matter if it’s a tiny house, or an RV or a condo. the same things I do here, I’ll have to do there so what does it matter?
I know this is exacerbated by my not having some outside entity directing at least part of my day to day hours. I know this is about my having to be in control of everything that I do and having some of the things I do not mean or amount to anything. I can’t figure out what are the important things anymore. Even if I find something important, doesn’t mean that it or its importance will last.
I can’t kill myself so I have to figure something out.
I love books, have always loved books. When all else appears to fail, a book never does. Inside is a story. Someone took all the words they needed and organized and ordered them to tell me something I wanted to know. Without even knowing that I existed.
It takes energy to swim against the tides in one’s life. To reach over and over again in a direction that sometimes opposes the flow of what has gone on before when one turns for a new path, a new thought and an old forgotten dream.
And I am tired. Tired. Tired of striving, desiring, wanting, pushing, digging, holding, waiting, hoping. Tired of effort and drive and persistence and perseverance.
I want to be here now and be done with the rest.
and can’t do it anymore.
Can’t don the cape and leotard
can’t sling the gun or roust the horses
for yet another frontier
I’m going to stay right here
awhile and decorate the hole
I’ve dug myself.
I climb into a bubble with you. At first it was just my bubble. I would practice wrapping myself in it for you. Practice feeling the touching of you through this bubble where it was just me by myself, practicing feeling you. And sometimes when we were together, when I had invited you to a fucking and you said yes, i would step aside and watch you and me fucking and I stood in my bubble and watched you; you were there fully, doing what I was doing, us fucking one another, each other, the other. And I saw you see me smile, and you smiled. There. Then. I had already invited you into my bubble where you were with me and I could practice feeling the touching of you with you there.
That’s what I wanted to say to her but that hadn’t happened yet. When she asked if I was in love with her. She would not understand that answer from me. She was still caught up in trying to translate the most basic things of me that it would have been impossible for me to get through just using the word “fucking” for what she called “making love”. See the words make a difference. It’s not just the word itself but how and when and tone. They can mean the same thing but they often only mean opposite sides of the the same thing; like one is good and one is bad. One you do with the one you love; one you do with only throwaways. So fucking means throwaway and making love means keep and God forbid you should want to keep the one you fuck.
That’s where we would end up. Not at the place where I fell in love with her. So what I said instead was “no, I’m not in love with you.” She was surprised. I knew she was surprised. Everyone was always in love with her. I loved the idea of her for a very long time. From the moment I met her really but I wasn’t what she wanted and we disappeared from each other quite easily. But then she would show up in my dreams, shadowy and smiling and I would look for her passively, like show up to group gatherings at the places she liked to go or ask people about her and then there she was. Long after I had given up seeing her again. But when I did, when I saw her…beeline.
what happened between then and now is just color commentary. I was hers but she kept picking me up and putting me down and I didn’t care. I was staying close. I would bask in the moments when she would let me inside of her bubble. I could see more of her. I could see the mask; could see that she knew that I saw it and would let me behind and she would show off for me in all of her glory. Then. Again. Every time. I would fall again and again and again.
So I said “No, when she asked” because I hadn’t fallen again. But I would. I did. I will. Always.