loans & groans

When the store manager called me into his office, I assumed it was for another one-on-one meeting we had every week or so to discuss how my department was doing.  But, when I sat down, he told me that the company was phasing out my position next year.  I was a little taken aback.  He told me it wasn't because of my performance and that he had no control over the decision.  I sat there, trying to process what was going on.

"I'm sure you want to go back to your former department," he said.

I thought about it for a minute.  While I didn't exactly love my new position, I thought back to my old position and realized I didn't miss it at all and wasn't thrilled to go back.  But, if I had no choice...

"Yes, I'd prefer that," I responded.

"I thought so," he said with a bit of a sigh.  "Well, you know I can't really promise you anything.  The only thing I can say is you'll get to keep your rate of pay but as you know, we've already moved everyone around to replace you, so..."

What was he trying to say?

"You still have five months," he added.  "Who knows what could happen in that time.  Some people might find other jobs.  Others will go off to school, so we might be able to fit you in somewhere." 

Might be able to fit me in somewhere?  That was reassuring.  If you'll recall, I wasn't exactly clamoring to take on supervisor of a new department and after only being given one day to decide, I went ahead and said yes.  Then, I went back and told him my concerns about the new position and that I wasn't sure I really wanted it after all.  To that, he told me he had already shifted everyone around to replace me and that I would be "putting him in a bind."  Well, now he was putting me in a bind.  After guilting me into taking the job, he was now saying that I wasn't going to have it anymore, after only two months of doing it?  I felt hot.  I took the job because I felt bad that everyone else had been moved around to compensate for the hole I made when I left.  I didn't want to disturb anyone else's new placement and definitely didn't want to disappoint my boss.  So, I tried to be a good employee and go with it, to ride out the mess I had put myself in.  Once again, trying to be a good person ended up biting me in the butt.  If I would have just told him no when I had the chance, I wouldn't have to worry about where I'd end up, like I'm doing now.  Even though I'm going to get my same pay, he can't guarantee I'll get the same hours.

And if that wasn't a big enough blow to the balls, I got a letter from my student loan provider informing me they are going to raise my payments up three hundred dollars starting this month.  After working nearly ten days straight, I was excited to come home and enjoy my three day weekend.  I was happy to pull into the driveway, knowing that long stretch of work was behind me and I had a semi-long stretch of rest ahead of me.  That is, until I saw that letter.  The next day was spent trying to sort the mess out.  Unfortunately, it couldn't be.  Turns out, private loan lenders are pretty much a-holes who don't work with low income losers such as myself.  I had already exhausted all of my deferments, forbearances, and interest only payment options.  The lady on the phone said my only other course would be to try consolidation.  So, after she patched me through to someone else, the guy on the phone calculated what my payments would be if I consolidated.  The payments would be two-to-three hundred dollars more a month.  Didn't exactly help my situation or provide any sort of comfort.

The worst part was that I tried to get my mom involved and she's just about as clueless when it comes to financial matters as I am.  The first huge mistake was when she didn't get involved in my initial loan application.  Being the typical dumb-ass redneck family that we are, none of my relatives had moved on to higher education.  Hardly any of them graduated high school so the concept of student loans was something that had never crossed anyone's minds.  And being the naive twenty-year old that I was at the time, I had no idea what I was doing.  I knew about checking and savings accounts but that was about the extent of it.  So when I asked Mom to help me find a good place to apply to, her response was, "Just apply to whoever will take you."  Thaanks.

I looked up a couple of companies my college recommended and randomly selected one.  I didn't know it was a private loan company.  I didn't even know there were different types of loans to choose from.  So, I went with the same company all three years I attended college, never truly realizing how much debt I was racking up.  My mom and I always assumed we'd just be able to pay back whatever we could.  Another dumb assumption.  Doesn't work that way.  These people are pretty ruthless and have no sympathy for unemployment or crappy retail jobs.  It's not like I'm not trying to pay back the money.  I've been paying on it for over a year now.  Never late.  Never less than what I owed.  But the increase will drain me of what little money I already have and I can't live like that.  But it doesn't matter to them.

The most frustrating aspect was when I asked my mom to listen in on my conversation with the loan people, just to make sure they didn't rope me into some plan that sounded good at first but ultimately would force me into repaying them with a goat sacrifice and my left testicle.  She ended up doing more harm than good, asking inane questions that served to anger me more on top of my already short fuse after learning there was no way I could back out of the increased payments.  And at one point, when the guy put me on hold, mom said she was going to take that time to use the bathroom.  But she took the phone in there with her.  So, I'm sitting in my room listening to soft jazz when I start to hear a soft sprinkle.

"Mom, I can hear you PEEING.  On the phone!"

Splash, splash.

"Oops, sorry."

I'm surprised the guy didn't come back on the line mid-stream.  That would have made the whole interaction all the more disastrous.  So, I spend the first day of my three day weekend trying to sort out the loan stuff but it was fruitless.  I was left feeling worse than when I started.  And as for now, I'm stuck paying nine hundred dollars a month when I don't even make that much.  I kind of don't know what I'm going to do. 

It just sucks because when I got my raise, I really thought that I'd be able to build my checking account back up and maybe even try to start saving.  I thought maybe I could catch up on my finances and feel comfortable with my money but even with my raise, it was still a bit of a struggle to save.  Then, I heard I'd be demoted and that my hours might be cut and then I hear my loans are increasing.  It's the perfect storm of screwing me over.  I can't see any way to get out of this.  Unless I win the lottery.  Or finalize my death.  But even if I did that, my parents are cosigners so if I bite the big one, they'll be stuck paying for my bad choices.  I'd be responsible for them living under a bridge and eating dirt to pay off my loans.  I don't want to do that to them.  I can't escape it.  Even in death, I can't run from the ramifications of my terrible decisions.  I can't seem to get anything right.

belly-flopping into the lake of fire

“Pie is an irrational number, incapable of being made into a fraction, impossible to divide from itself. So, too the soul is an irrational, indivisible equation that perfectly expresses one thing: you. The soul would be no good to the devil if it could be destroyed. And it is not lost when placed in Satan’s care, as is often said. He always knows exactly how to put his finger on it.”
-Horns by Joe Hill

I'm pretty sure I'm going to hell.

It seems like such a casual conclusion to an insignificant life, a lazy indifference to a devastating destination.  I'm definitely not happy about it but I feel calm.  In fact, I think I'm more disturbed by now undisturbed I am by it.  How can be so blasé about baking in eternal hellfire?  Maybe it's because it is too terrible to conceive.  Or maybe I feel deep down in my heart that I'm truly not deserving of damnation.  But hell is not determined by good deeds or being a good person.  It's salvation through Jesus, which I'm not sure I have.  It's about having a personal relationship with Christ, which I definitely don't have.  The more I learn about Christianity, the more I realize how far away from it I am, how I'm confused by certain aspects or flat our disagree with others.

I already knew there were several parts of Christianity I wasn't following.  There's that whole bit about loving your neighbor, which is a problem for me because I pretty much hate everyone.  And through stumbling upon other Christian teachings, I found out, much to my surprise, that anxiety and depression are symptoms of sin.  And since I believe I fit those labels, it makes me wonder if it's all my fault, if I've done this to myself.  I can't help but to think of my horse-faced counselor in college.  He sat in his chair, his gray hair pulled tightly across his temples, hanging in a limp ponytail, telling me that a lot of my troubles were brought on myself.  He said I assigned different roles to different people in my life.  Some were executioners, others were saviors.  And I fulfilled the role of victim.  He did have a Jesus beard so maybe there's a connection there.  But at the time I didn't need to hear that.  It didn't seem like the best idea to tell me I was bringing all the pain I was feeling on to myself.  Even if it was true, it felt like there should have been a better way to go about it.  Telling a depressed person it's all their fault?  What good is that supposed to do?  Are they expected to snap out of their sadness?  It only plunged me deeper because not only was I going through all of this grief, I was told it was all my fault, that it was all pointless, that I could have controlled it, that I could have done without it, that I might have been happy.  No, I did not feel better.

But I prayed through it and tried to rely on God.  Things got marginally better.  That could have been God at work or that could have simply been life unfolding as it randomly does.  So there was no reassurance.  There was no proof or confirmation.  It was most likely chance, something easily explained away.  Easily dismissible.  God felt easily absent.  But I kept going, kept praying, kept relying because you don't give up on God when it's hard.  But when things are easy, it's easy to be a Christian, easy to praise God for all the good in your life.  Yet it feels nearly impossible to hang on to the hope of something greater when your world is in shambles.  Obviously, it can be done.  Good Christians do it every day.  I have an acquaintance whose life is worse than mine in many aspects and yet she still has a strong faith.  I envy her a lot.  I have it better in so many ways, but worse in others.  I look up to her an wonder how she does it.  I suspect a big part of it is because she grew up in church.  Her parents were strong Christians and instilled that into her at an early age.  I didn't grow up that way.  For her, her faith was as natural as her arms and legs.  For me, faith always felt like having an extra arm attached to my forehead.  It never quite felt right.

It's just hard to talk to a God who doesn't talk back.  It's hard to put faith in something that seems so distant and unattainable.  It's hard to believe in good when you feel bathed in bad every day of your life.  My mind is diseased and my body is deformed and I can't see the justice in it, especially when I called out for salvation so many times, read my Bible, prayed, listened for God's voice many a night and never got so much as a whisper.  I felt like I followed the "rules" but every Christian has a different set of rules, another aspect of the religion that frustrates me.  Go to any church, any religious leader, and they'll all tell you there's only one way to reach Jesus, but they each have their own "one way."  I've been told to just follow me heart and pray about which way to go and believe in that but what if I believe in the wrong way?  Take a look at my life and you'll see I'm not good at making decisions.  I tried to have faith, tried to press on through prayer because people told me that God was still there, God was still with me, working through me, even if I couldn't feel it or hear it.  And I tried to believe that but belief only goes so far without a little evidence, faith only goes so far without a little bit of confirmation.  None of which I have received.  The wind never blew, my heart never stirred and my soul never stilled.

god the father

"Fathers, do not embitter your children, or they will become discouraged." 
-Colossians 3:21

I've often tried to do research on man and God and the connection between the two that I cannot seem to establish.  In the past, I've made attempts to live the Christian lifestyle, to give my troubles and fears to God but there was always a slight hesitation, always a need for validation that I was living correctly, that I was in fact saved, that God was there with me.  But there was never any indication that God heard me, that He was with me, or that He even cared.  And one day, I came across an interesting viewpoint about certain people's relationships with God.  I cannot recall where I gathered this information but I remember it struck me.  The person said that there is often a correlation between the relationship you have with your heavenly father and the relationship you have with your biological father.  When I thought about my dad, I realized it always felt like he was absent, too.  Maybe this person was on to something.

As you might have guessed by now, based on my assessment of the rest of my family, I don't have a great relationship with my dad.  He's a stoic figure who isn't incredibly expressive, articulate or affectionate.  He hasn't hugged me since I was a little kid.  I don't even remember the last time we've touched.  I also can't recall the last time he told me he loved me.  And I see God in the same way.  My father in heaven feels just as cold and distant as my father in my home.  It's as if they both gave me life and then stood back and watched me live it, witnessed my stumbles and falls into the dirt and didn't lift a hand to help.  They've both provided in some ways, such as financial comfort and housing, and lacked in other ways, such as emotional stability and safety.  They both feel like a presence that cannot be persuaded.

There's quite a few differences between me and my father.  He's incredibly country and I'm not.  He likes to hunt and fish and drink beer on Fridays after work.  I like to write and draw and eat candy.  He's not into art or music like I am.  He likes westerns.  I like horror.  He's an outside type.  I'm an insider.  You get the point.  But we don't clash over our differences and it's not hard for us to get along, mostly because we are so different we are almost removed from each other's lives.  There is no tension because there is basically nothing there at all.  When I come home from work and walk into the den where he is, he doesn't say hello or acknowledge me.  I always have to be the one to initiate contact and it hurts.  An absence of a greeting might not seem like much but I don't see him all day and when we find ourselves in the same room, he can't be bothered to tear himself away from the six o' clock news to say hello.  And God, in his vast greatness, can't seem to come down to Earth to throw me a bone.

But that's not to say my dad doesn't care for me.  I know he does.  He just doesn't show it.  And being the insecure mess that I am, I need that reassurance.  And I know God is supposed to care for me but I don't feel that, either.  I'm constantly praying for a sign that I'm living the way I should be, that God is with me, that I'm not some gigantic sinner that's bound to belly-flop into the lake of fire.  And I wonder what it will take to change things.  Should I begin with God or my dad?  If I see an improvement in one area, should I expect the same results on the other side?  I doubt it.  Much like my sister, my dad is set in his ways, not that my dad is a douche like my sister.  As far as I can tell, he's a good man, just guarded and closed off emotionally.  And because he has been that way for over fifty years, I don't think there's much I can do to pierce his countrified armor.  

While my father remains steadfast in his stoicism, God remains deaf and dumb to my dilemmas.  I know I've called out to him more times than I can recall only to be met with silence.  I wonder if my dad would be so silent.  I suppose all it would take is for me to ask.  But if I were to be honest with myself, I'm not sure I really want to ask.  Maybe I'm not in a hurry to change things, to have such a great relationship with my dad.  Maybe I'm too far gone or maybe I'm just too scared.

My dad has never been the picture of great health.  He's a big believer in deep frying everything.  He also enjoys his alcohol and cigarettes.  The smoking thing is a big problem for me.  He's getting older and having worked a back-breaking job for over thirty years now, his body has slowly worn down.  He has an unhealthy diet and doesn't wear sunscreen despite the fact that he works out in the sun all day long.  It feels as if he's already in danger of disintegrating without having to add the bad habit of smoking to the mix.  There's a long list of dead relatives who expired due to tobacco related illnesses.  He watched his aunt die a slow and painful death from emphysema.  She was a long time smoker.  He watched his brother die a slow and painful death from lung cancer.  He was a long time smoker.  And you think that might have stopped him, might have been revelatory occurrences.  But he never missed a beat.  Even when his colon exploded at four in the morning when I was eight-years-old.  It was cancer.  Despite the chemotherapy and colostomy bags, Dad still lit up.  And I think that kind of scare left a scar inside me.  In the back of my mind, I'm always terrified that my dad will fall ill again, that the cancer will come back or turn up in a different part of his body and he'll die in a hospital bed hooked up to tubes and wires.  That he'll turn skeletal and bald like his dead brother.  that he'll suffer and that I'll suffer seeing him like that.  And that fear has held me back from getting close to him.  I don't want to spend years building this beautiful relationship with my dad only for him to die on me so suddenly.  And so I don't get close to spare myself that potential pain.  And I feel bad about that.

It's kind of weird because I don't feel like I'm missing anything in my life, therefore I almost feel like nothing needs to change.  I see my dad fairly regularly and so he's in my life, he's just not involved in my life.  I'd imagine a lot of people would want to be closer with their loved ones but I'm not sure if I do want to be closer with my dad.  We can't relate to each other as we are on two totally different areas of the personality spectrum.  I don't agree with many of his philosophies, nor his small-mindedness on certain issues.  But there's no talking or compromise because he will always think he's got the world figured out and there's no fighting that.  He's already mentioned that he'd be willing to disown me if ever I turned out a certain way and so it's hard to bond with that knowledge tucked away in my head.  My dad has his own world figured out and I wonder how much I factor into it.  It feels like a case of not missing what you never had but I fear it will turn into not knowing what you have until it's gone.  I don't want to regret that I never had a better relationship with my dad but it's not like it's strained to begin with.  I don't dislike him but there's nothing special there.  I hate to say it because so many people grow up without a father and I am fortunate enough to have one but I don't cherish it.  And a part of the reason why is because I feel like he doesn't cherish it, either.  But nothing will change because things don't need to be.  I don't think I'll get anything more out of our relationship than I've already gotten and I guess I'm fine with that...or I will be eventually.  

And I feel that same kind of standstill with God, at least in the relationship department.  I feel my knowledge and understanding of God has been changing and growing throughout the years yet I can't seem to apply that knowledge and understanding to whatever it is that he and I have.  There are times when I want to give up and there are times when I want to persevere.  But nothing ever really seems to change.  It's hoping and wishing and no action.  It's the fear of rejection, of awkward silences, of breaking down walls and putting in effort.  It's wondering if the outcome is worth that effort.  It's all about relationships and how I can't make them work with friends, family or God the father.  It's about wanting to be loved by those considered to be closest to me.  And it's about not feeling like I am.  What good is the heart if you can't show it to me?  How do I know I have it when it's kept locked away in a box among the money and gifts?  It's nice to know you're loved.  It's nicer to be told.  It's the best when shown.  And that's something I think people have a lot of trouble with, especially my two dads.

blood relative

"Happiness is having a large, loving, caring close-knit family...in another city."

-George Burns

 
Family is something I've never thought too much about, never thought was important or an integral part of my life.  Family is, however, plays an important role in my life, probably more than I can realize or appreciate.  I've just taken them for granted like I have all the other luxuries in my life.  I think, "Who doesn't have a family?  That's like asking who doesn't have oxygen?" It just feels like something that's always been there and is just as much a part of my life as my skin covering my bones or the grass on the ground.  But a lot of people don't have a family and I can't necessarily wrap my mind around how that might be a negative thing for them.  And I guess that's because although I do have a family, none of us are that close or hold that relationship to a high degree and it almost feels like I don't have much of one, either.  I feel bad for saying that because I'm sure there isn't a legitimate comparison there.  Having a detached family is better than none at all.

Right?

I think a big factor in my family not being close is the fact that we've all kind of done our own thing.  My dad's grandmother had four boys and none of them finished high school.  Without an education, they took on menial jobs to support their new wives and screaming babies.  That includes my father.  And it seems my father's brothers didn't seem too bothered to tell their children to get an education because next to none of them did.  They were lucky to get out of high school but even that doesn't help you get very far in life anymore.  And with no way out, they all stuck around and knocked up others who stuck around.  And then came more screaming babies, which always made holiday get-togethers way more fun, and the cycle continued.  And I say this not to insult my family because even with an education, I'm not much better off than they are.  I only say it to mean that my goals differed from those of my aunts, uncles and cousins.  They focused on cigarettes and alcohol while I focused on getting through college.  They worried about how they were going to take care of their accidental offspring while I wondered how I would become an artist.  And those differences in focus left very little for commonality among us.  Therefore, we never had an opportunity to be that close.

I hear all the time about the importance of family, how family is all you have, how if you can't count on your family, you can't count on anyone.  And I wonder if that's why I can't count on anyone.  I wonder if that's why I can't form close connections with people.  Maybe family is set up to be your practice bond that you learn to form when you are younger.  And because I never managed to do that, maybe it negatively affected my social skills.  As much as family can be there for you to have a place to settle, to feel like you belong somewhere, they can also make you feel alienated.

There are people without families, and although it's probably not always an ideal situation, many of those individuals manage to do okay for themselves.  So, is family really that important after all?  What if friends take the place of family?  It seems any support system is beneficial, whether it be a relative or a really good friend.  And don't the terms "friend" and "family" become interchangeable after a while?  When it comes down to it, doesn't it seem more natural to think of your friends as your family, especially if you find yourself in a family that doesn't get you?  You share genetics with your family but how far does that take you?  When it comes down to it, it's only blood.  You are born into families and as you develop your own unique mind, you realize you might not click with the rest of your clan.  But you can choose your friends, find the people who share your interests and passions and that's how you can grow close.  They become your support, your therapy, your anchor.

But I don't have an anchor.  I'm not close with my family and I'm not really close with anyone.  Not anymore, anyway.  It's interesting because it feels like I'm missing something in each relationship I try to establish, whether it be with a relative or an acquaintance.  There's either that built-in closeness that comes with family, yet without the common interests.  Or I find people I have things in common with but can't ever seem to get close to them.  I wonder what keeps me from giving myself to others or allowing them to give themselves to me.  I seek it out yet can't seem to grasp it.

If family is so important, I wonder why it is that people have to find that family feeling outside of their blood.  It makes me wonder how families are put together.  Are our relatives randomly placed in to our lives or is there a plan in the parentage?  I look at the diversity of family and some days it feels like some are cut from the same cloth while others seem like a cut-and-paste collage.  How is it that dreamers are born into practicality?  How is it artists come from athletes, homosexuals from homophobes, atheists from the religious?  It turns out that some poor souls become the unfortunate result of the wheel of chance, made to begin their lives as outcasts.  It feels unfair to be placed in a family that will hinder a person's lifestyle.  Yes, friends can be supportive but it still hurts to feel like your family has turned their backs on you.  For example, my cousin came out as gay several years ago.  My mom told me that my father said he'd disown me if I ever came out as gay.  I wasn't gay so I was relieved I'd never have to go though that situation but I was also alarmed that he would feel that way.  It was annoying that he could be so small-minded for one and it hurt that he'd feel he could cut me out of his life so easily, especially over something I found so inconsequential.

I have to wonder if that small tidbit of information shaped the way I saw my father.  I wonder if it was one of the wedges placed between us, a slice of knowledge that kept me from pursuing a close relationship with him.  It makes sense.  Why should I try to get close, why should my love grow for him if he isn't willing to accept all of me, just love me as a son, respect me as a man, not just a lifestyle.  It seemed kind of a waste of energy.

I look at my parents and my sister and all my relatives and I realize I don't want to have children because I am terrified I'll end up passing my crazy along to my son or daughter.  Another part that scares me is the massive amount of bigotry and addiction in my family, something else I'm not too fired up about passing along to another generation.  Or what if I end up being like my parents?  What if I'm overly critical like my mother or emotionally absent like my father?  I wouldn't want to damage a child that way.  But, would I?  Who says I will end up being like them?  You hear of parents breaking the cycle of abuse all the time but is it really so easy to do?  Was my mother criticized as a child?  Did my dad have a good relationship with his dad?  Did they simply inherit their parents' bad habits?  Or did they consciously make a decision not to act the way their parents did but ended up doing it anyway?  What is controllable and what is unavoidable?

Is blood relative to behavior?  Are we our parents?  Are we handed down the bad as well as the good?  I have my mother's eyes and insecurities.  I have my father's hair and inability to show affection.  We not only inherit talent but temperament.  The question is what is fixable?  What can be changed and what will always remain?  Can you lose your ability to sing or your penchant for anger?  Are our characteristics so ingrained in us that we can never get rid of them or can we only suppress them, work on it daily or watch as it rises back up into our behavior?  What can be destroyed and what can be kept down?  Are we sentenced to a life of stoicism or mania?  Are we chained down by a certain set of characteristics or can we craft our own?  And if we can, how?

I look at my family tree and wonder what feeds it.  It's like it stands in a stagnant body of water, a pool where all the hereditary habits can be found, submerged and cycling, funneled into the tree, all the paranoia and madness and drug addiction coursing through the trunk and pumping through the pulp as it blooms, feeding the bark and branches the same tainted water that fueled the previous boughs, the ancient liquid that still lingers in the limbs, the roots swimming in insanity.  It's chlorophyll and cancer, heartwood and heartaches, sap and cigarettes.  Of course, every family tree could use some trimming but it still feels a little daunting to sit back and see the whole thing spread out in front of me.  Interestingly enough, it's also kind of reassuring.  Yes, I might be screwed up but every branch on the tree is a little gnarled, every leaf a little wilted.  It's not just me.  Maybe, baby, I was born this way and maybe I didn't solely contribute to my craziness.  I sprouted among the periwinkles and weeds and I can't help my placement in the dirt, so why should I worry?  Oh, yeah, because I can't help it.  My mom's a worrier, too.

It's genetic, after all.