bad romance III: the wedding

"There goes somebody's miracle
Walking down the street
There goes some modern fairy tale
I wish it could happen to me..."
-Liz Phair, Somebody's Miracle

The girl I mentioned in my first Bad Romance entry, the one who found herself a boyfriend, married the guy yesterday.  It was weird to imagine her getting married.  I think she had one boyfriend in high school and two in college, one of them being the guy she eventually married.  That's not to say that someone should have a lot of boyfriends or girlfriends before settling down but I guess for me, because she hadn't been involved in many relationships, I just never saw her as a relationship kind of girl.  Much less marriage material.  But, there she was, dressed in white and exchanging rings and the whole scene felt so surreal.

I wasn't thrilled about attending the wedding because she and I had grown apart since we both moved away to college.  She and I used to be pretty close in high school and community college but after we both moved from our home town, life happened, as it always does, and circumstances weakened our bond.  It was almost like we were estranged or something.  I hadn't spoken to her in probably a year and so in some ways it felt like I was a wedding crasher, sitting down in a pew among strangers, watching foreign people unite in the face of God.  Plus, I had no idea who her groom was.  She met him in college so the first time I shook his hand was during the reception.  I surely didn't know him and I felt like I wasn't too sure I knew her that well, either.

The idea of sitting through the whole atmosphere of holy matrimony was also unappetizing.  Love and marriage is such a foreign concept to me now that I sat there, baffled, as the groom's father took over preacher duties and talked about God and love and the unbreakable bond the bride and groom were about to form.  Pictures flashed and tears were splashed and I just felt out of place.  My usual empty.  But there was this weirdness that found itself creeping up inside me.  I watched my high school classmate get married.  And I kind of wanted that for myself.  It was a celebration.  It was a big day for both of them, maybe one of the most important days in their lives and I wanted that, too.  I wondered if I'd ever have a big day like that, if I'd ever get to go on stage and put a ring on it and have people clap for us and beam and cry and bring out a three-tiered cake with whipped frosting and kiss her in front of friends and family and not feel so alone and show people that I wasn't an unlovable freak, like, "Hey,  I can be loved.  I can be cared for.  And I'm capable of caring, too.  I can be normal."

But I'm not normal.  And I'm not okay.

For the longest time I had given up on that white wedding scenario for myself.  I mean, I still had given up on it but the wedding was one of the only times I had let myself think about such a thing.  You see, not only had I given up on love and romance years ago but I hadn't let myself even think about it because I knew I was just putting myself in a bad place.  It's never fun to fantasize about something you can't have.  I could dream about living in a mansion with with a pooper made from platinum but that will never happen so why should I set my heart on it?  It was the same with love.

Then I thought more about it and realized maybe I just wanted the show, the celebration, the ceremony of it all.  But after all the food had been wrapped up and the gifts have been opened, I'd be left with a wife and a future with her and I don't even know if I want that.  I guess I'm a bit confused.  When I was younger, all I wanted was love but one day I realized that I was never going to get it and then upon further introspection I realized that I wasn't even sure I wanted it.  I think the concept of marriage is nice but I also think a lot of people don't fully understand how huge of a commitment marriage is.  It's wonderful but it also takes so much work.  It's like a second job.  You have to transition from taking care of yourself to help take care of someone else.  That's not to say you shouldn't take care of yourself but what I mean to say is you have someone else to consider rather than just yourself.  Marriage is tricky sometimes.  And it's forever.  And forever is not for everyone.

Is it for me?

The ceremony pretty much went how I pictured it:  I went with a mutual friend of mine and the bride's.  We sat down and made fun of everyone and then had some cake and left.  I was mostly concerned that I'd see a lot of people from high school.  I wasn't looking or feeling my best after my weight gain so I had hoped I wouldn't run into too many people looking as run down as I did.  But, really, it was mostly just her college friends so I felt relatively safe.  It didn't help the sense of being among strangers, though, because I didn't know anyone except the bride's family.

I was a bit surprised at how they geeked up the joint.  The bride was dressed like Liv Tyler straight out of Lord of the Rings.  They even had a LOTR cake.  And the groom had a Star Wars Millenium Falcon cake, which was quite delicious.  They also had a nice assortment of candy to choose from. After the couple exchanged vows, they sang Michael Buble's "Everything" to each other because they are both theater majors so they had to incorporate some musical number to seal the deal.  And then they walked out to the Pirates of the Caribbean theme and the audience was treated to a five minute slide show of their lives from tots to teens to happily engaged.

During the reception, as I stuffed my face, the newlyweds played those lame "how well do you know your spouse" games.  And then we talked to the bride for a bit and then that was it.  I grabbed a couple of bags of candy and we were on our way out.  It wasn't as miserable as I was expecting it to be and and the mutual friend even agreed it wasn't too bad, and she hates weddings.  Of course, the inevitable feeling of loneliness did present itself like I was expecting it to do.  And I think that's why I was so hesitant to go.  Their happiness would just be another reminder of my misery.  And then I felt bad because it's just so typically negative to feel that way, to not be happy for anyone.  I really need to get over myself.

But I promise this wasn't some kind of cliched realization about the loss of love while attending a wedding.  No, those pinpricks of loneliness were there far before the ceremony.  I've actually been feeling the emptiness a lot more over the past several weeks.  It'll come and go but it hasn't been too far from my mind.  It kind of just sweeps in like a whisper in my ear, reminding me how isolated I am, how far away I am from love.  How far I am away from God and any kind of love I thought I once had.  It feels like my heart is stifled, only allowed to slip between two spots:  bitterness and emptiness.  There's always a low-grade kind of grumpiness inside, a dysthymia that's poisoned not only myself but my outward emotions for others.  I can't seem to be happy for anyone.  I guess it's all a part of being a dead and disintegrating bastard.  It all fades in time.  The flesh and the feelings all whisk away.  But some feelings never die.  Envy is evergreen.  The dead are jealous of the living.  They want a warm body instead of the cold dirt.  They want a bouquet of flowers instead of a casket spray.  They want a heart injected with love, not formaldehyde.  I reach up and out with rotten hands and try to touch the face of a fantasy but it always slips just out of sight.

But the dead are discarded and life carries on for everyone else.  And as everyone else carried on outside the church building, I gave the girl who came with me my keys and told her to start up the car while I stayed behind to pee.  After I was done, I hit the candy spread hard.  I filled bag after bag with chocolate goodness, looking forward to easing the pain later on with cocoa-dipped jumbo marshmallows.  As I reached for another shovel-full of Oreo cake balls, an older lady stood next to me and filled up her own bag.

Looking over the assortment of sweets, she gave me a nudge, smirked and said, "Death by chocolate, eh?"

"You don't know the half of it," I said as I pulled the drawstring closed on the bag and then walked away.

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.

mother may i?

"Oh mother dear
don't let them shoot my kite down..."
-Nick Heyward, Kite

It's taken me a while to write this post, partially because I couldn't think of too many examples to support my small rant, which we will jump into in a second.  Secondly, I could sense the backlash I'd probably unleash by being so trivial.  I wanted to continue to breakdown my family situation, which started with my last post, siblinguistics.  That one covered my sister, and I wanted to swing through the other branches of my family tree eventually covering my mom and dad.  But, as I started writing, I realized I really had no right to be complaining about these people.  My sister was a different story, as she never took care of me or tried to be involved in my life in any capacity.  My parents, however, took great care of me and any complaints I'd express would seem petty in comparison to the comfortable lifestyle I have.  Then, I realized that I am petty.  I complain.  It's what I do.  It's what I'm good at.  And just because I complain doesn't mean I don't realize how fortunate I am.  I can disagree with something without rejecting it, can appreciate something without accepting it.  I've spent too long feeling too guilty for the things I've felt and I can't do that anymore, something I've summed up as my paper cut philosophy, which I have covered extensively in this blog.  Yes, I'm privileged.  But privilege does not denote perfection.

Out of everyone in my family, I am probably closest with my mom.  But it doesn't mean that our relationship is that great.  While we are usually good overall, it's also often strained.  My mother is an extremely controlling, demanding woman.  She controls mine and my dad's money, food, and many times, our emotions.  When I was younger, I was never allowed to be too emotional.  If I ever laughed too much or was too hyper, like any kid is prone to do, I was reprimanded for acting childish.  If I was ever sad or upset about something, I was chastised for being weak.  There was never sympathy for any of the tough situations I found myself in.  Instead of a soothing word, my mother always countered my complaints with, "Why didn't you stand up for yourself?  Why did you take that from them?  Why didn't you do X, Y and Z to remedy the situation?"  Maybe because I was never reassured of my worth.  I was always picked apart rather than built up to be a confident.  And God forbid I ever got angry with my mother because it only made things worse.  I could never express any kind of hurt or sadness toward her because she made it seem like I was accusing her of being the worst mother in the world.  I never said that, nor thought that, but she tended to blow things out of proportion.  So, I learned to keep my feelings to myself.  It wasn't worth adding any more strife to the swirl of negative emotions that spun in my head.  And while it might not seem like that big of a deal, it definitely didn't help my emotional development, especially in the area of expression.  I learned to channel a lot of that negative energy through art, and eventually, writing.  But when it comes to people, I tend to either keep too much to myself or spill too much.

My mother is old school.  She's also small-minded and set in her ways.  It's hard being a progressive young man in such a repressive household.  She never liked the way I dressed.  She didn't like that I owned hair gel or had more than one pair of shoes.  She didn't like that I was more of an indoors person than outdoors.  She wanted me to ride a bike outside while I wanted to draw inside.  She didn't approve of my taste in clothing, music, friends, television and especially not my choice for college or career.

I needed to express myself, to get out of my redneck town.  I needed to be artistic, to create beauty and inspire and entertain.  My mother wanted me to draw blueprints for houses and company buildings.  I was not feeling that and never even considered it, much to my mother's disappointment.  No, I needed to break away, to do something bigger than I had ever done before, something more grand than myself, contribute art and culture and perhaps a message to the world.

But even a state away, my mother's reach managed to choke me.  She constantly asked if I had done my laundry, if I had finished my homework and went to bed at a decent hour.  She queried about the last time I vacuumed my room or took out the trash and if I had once washed a dish.  She didn't have to ask if I had purchased groceries because she had access to my bank account and made sure to tell me I was spending too much money.

I always had the impression that she thought I was immature and irresponsible.  Maybe I am to some degree but I am also responsible when I need to be.  I managed to make it through three years of college without starving or having the Center for Disease Control inspect my dorm room.  Oh, and I graduated Cum Laude.  I created a short film.  I was published in the college's literary journal.  And when I went back to work, I was put in charge of an entire department before being promoted to supervisor.  I don't have any illegitimate children running around, never been in trouble with the law and floss daily.  All in all, I think I'm a pretty damn good kid.  But my mother doesn't acknowledge those things.  She only chooses to criticize, nitpick and whittle away my accomplishments by pointing out inconsequential things I don't do to her satisfaction, such as the cleanliness of my room or the fact that I don't work enough hours at my job, which is out of my control anyway.

It seems silly for me to get upset over her acidic appraisal of my everyday life, but it all adds up, every judgment, every shake of her head or squint of her eyes.  It's the paper cut again.  It's that subtle chipping away at my self-esteem, an almost unconscious act of antagonizing me until I feel wrecked and unworthy.  It's the fact that she questions everything I do, wear, purchase.  It's the fact that she can't simple praise me for anything without throwing her own assessments into the mix.  It's the fact that she only sees my art as a money making business and not something I just enjoy.  It's the fact that she has never asked to read anything I've ever written.  It's because there's never been support of my decisions or my lifestyle, only reluctant acceptance.  And it feels like I've been living my life up against a wall, constantly pushing forward and feeling nothing but resistance.

But my mother is not a bad woman.  She is a hard worker, a good friend and a generous provider.  She has always paid for just about anything I've ever wanted, and will probably continue to do so as long as I have a need.  But being a monetary mama doesn't always ease the pain.  She took care of me how she knew to, in her own way, no matter how misguided she might have been.  But, isn't that all parents?  She did what she could with what she had and maybe by the time I came around, she was just tired.  She had already had eight hard years with my troublesome sister before I came along and since I wasn't necessarily planned, my parents probably just went with the wind when it came to raising me.  My mother soothed me with food instead of hugs, but she probably didn't know any better.  It worked and she stuck with it, never foreseeing the future damage she'd inflict.  She bought me coloring books and crayons and video games.  But she missed out on actually nurturing me and my talent, never went out of her way to make me feel special.  She often dismissed my drawings with an insincere "very good" before returning to her cooking.  But this was never intentional.  She was distracted, exhausted.  Once, when I was older, I confronted her with her incessant criticisms and she responded by saying she only said those things to help me, not to hurt me.  Obviously, she thought she was teaching me to be a better person but it backfired.  She was was unknowingly making me feel I was weak and unfit for independence.

It's always been a bit of a struggle to please my mother.  I often avoided situations that might have been fun or beneficial just so I wouldn't have to endure another disapproving look or icy silence.  I often asked her permission to do things in lieu of independent decision making.  It was always just easier to pacify her.  But I felt I was never able to grow up because I was confined by my mother's cold critiques.  How could I feel ready to step out into the world when she didn't think I could make up my own bed?  How could I grow up when my mom coddled me and then complained about it?  Hm, complaining.  I guess I got that from her, too.  I guess I have a lot in common with her.  Not only do we have the same hair, skin, teeth and eyes but the same mentality as well.  And it's slightly disconcerting as there are so many things about her I don't agree with.  And I realize the things I don't care about her are some of the same things I don't care about myself.  The impatience.  The quick temper.  The feeling of restless dissatisfaction.  What is it they say, you can't love anyone until you love yourself?  I suppose the same goes for acceptance.  My mother is not just a mom, but a person.  A human.  Fallible.  Loving.  Tired.  She is just another person, not a miracle mother, but no one's mother is.  And I have to accept that.

I'm sure parenting is harder than I could ever imagine and children, and people in general, no matter the age, are so susceptible to insecurity that the slightest word or action or inaction could create chaos within one's self, could screw someone up for life.  My mom wasn't highly educated, isn't incredibly worldly and doesn't have a great grasp of sensitivity.  And it's not really her fault.  Like I said, she's not a bad woman.  We do have our good times.  We laugh and when something excites me, I still want to tell her about it.  As much as I feel I missed out on integral part of growing up, becoming an adult, becoming well adjusted, I can't put all the blame on my mother and even if she was partly responsible, I should be old enough now to be able to change things, to at least make an effort to undo some of the damage.  And realize that she will never stop reviewing my life, lining up my accomplishments and blasting them away with her own input.  That's just something I have to not take so seriously, not have to internalize the way I do.  And as much as she might point out my shortcomings, as you can see, I point out hers as well.  I'm no better, really.  I am my mother's son. 

siblinguistics

"Brothers and sisters are as close as hands and feet."

-Vietnamese Proverb

After being screwed over by my sister several months ago, I had a lot of bitterness toward her.  It kind of disgusted me how she didn't want her own brother in her home.  I wasn't asking to live there, just to stay for a while so I could try to find a decent job that would allow me to move out of our parents' home so I could start my own life.  I suppose I was asking too much, however, because she acted like I was the biggest inconvenience the whole time I was there.

I tried to stay out of her way but when we found ourselves in the same area together, she interrogated me over my daily doings, asking me how many applications I sent in, inquiring as to how many resumes I printed out, how many newspapers I bought or how many malls I visited to ask if they were hiring.  Plus, she felt the need to push jobs on me that I had no interest in.  Here she was, working a job she hated, and thought it was necessary to make me do the same.  That's one characteristic she inherited from Mom.  As if her pestering me wasn't bad enough, I was driving to an interview one day when Mom called and told me my sister didn't even want me to come to her house.  Mom got the call from my sister just as I was pulling out of my driveway to go see her.  Mom said she started to call me and tell me to turn around.  I wish she would have.  It would have saved me some anguish.

I've never been close with my sister.  I believe it has something to do with our large age gap and the fact that she's probably a bigger cynic than I am, if you can believe that.  But I can't seem to shake this latest incident, can't seem to wrap my feeble mind around her complete lack of sympathy for my situation.  It's not like I was asking to move in.  It's not like I was planning on eating all of her groceries or throwing my dirty underwear on the living room floor.  I was just needing a place to stay for a maximum of two weeks until I could find a job and an apartment.  It wasn't too much to ask, at least I thought.  But, for my sister, I might as well have asked her to walk a tightrope over piranha infested waters.  It was insulting and hurtful because I'm family and I always hoped, despite us not being close, that she would help me out when I was in need.  Sure, she did, but she did so reluctantly and then treated me like a cockroach that came out at night to nibble on the dirty dishes left in the sink.  

When I was little, I adored my sister.  Perhaps that's where some of her annoyance with me came from.  Sure, I can understand having some little rugrat clinging onto your leg might grate on a gal's nerves after a while, but I wonder if she ever wondered why I was under her so much.  Did she ever realize how cool I thought she was, how I was proud that she was my sister, how I thought she was the neatest thing since Crayola?  As I grew older, I hoped that my burgeoning maturity would somehow soften her revulsion of me.  I hoped that as I became an adult, we could be more adult toward each other, see each other as somewhat equals, instead of a idealized big sister and a nerdy little brother.  Besides, she introduced me to art and horror movies when I was little, two things I still crave to this day.  I hoped we'd make a connection over those things.  I suppose we did, for a few Christmases.  But that connection wasn't strong enough to maintain through multiple holidays.  Even as I started to understand who I was as a person, as I began exploring myself and why I was who I was, as I stopped caring about being the cool guy for everyone else, I still felt vulnerable around her, inadequate.  I still saw myself as that clueless little boy who clung to his sister.  I think she still saw me that way, too.

I never knew how to talk to my sister because I never really knew who she was.  She moved out soon after I hit my teenage years, when I started becoming aware of myself and my surroundings.  I never got to know her past the sisterly image I had constructed in my small, impressionable mind.  She never got to know me past my little boy annoyance.  And when we'd see each other again for the holidays, it was always awkward.  We couldn't carry a conversation past book or movie recommendations and her horror stories about work.  It's not that I didn't try but it always felt forced when I asked her questions, like it was more of an interview than a relationship.

I love my sister because she's family, but I don't really like her.  She has a terrible attitude and doesn't give anything potentially good a chance.  She's cold to those around her, even her husband.  And after the way she treated me, I'm just kind of over her.  She came over the other day to take care of some business in town and stayed here overnight.  I hadn't seen her since Easter and I was okay with that.  While she was over, I stayed in my room the entire time, not going out of my way to ignore her but I didn't make any effort to socialize.  Mom pointed that out to me after my sister left.

"You acted like you had nothing to do with her," Mom said.

"Well, I didn't mean to."

"You just stayed in your room the whole time."

"I always stay in my room."

"Well, you could have came out and visited."

"Sorry."

"You still mad at her?"

And that was where I became annoyed with my mom.  It felt she was more angry at me for being angry at my sister for being mean to me.  But what about my parents being angry at my sister for being mean to me?  I brought that up and Mom just shrugged it off.

"Oh," she said with a dismissive wave of her hand.  "We were angry and we told her, me and your dad."

Okay, so is that supposed to make me feel better?  You two can be angry and I can't?

"You just need to let it go and move on," Mom said.

But I can't and I won't because it wasn't just some excusably tough time in her life that I happened to step into.  It symbolized how she's always treated me, how she's always seen me as bothersome.  It goes beyond that one incident.  It exemplified our entire relationship and after that, I was done.  My sister and I have never been that close and I am sure we never will be.  And while I get jealous of other strong sibling relationships, I don't feel too bad about the nearly  nonexistent one I have with my sister.  It's really her choice to be the way she is and there's nothing I can do about it.  As much as this might sound terrible to say, I don't consider it that big of a loss.

How do you talk to a sibling?  I understand the parent child relationship, I suppose.  Parents are in charge, to be respected but there's also that small window of mutual friendship that can form as the child grows, matures and becomes a relatable adult.  But when it comes to an older or younger brother or sister, where does each sibling stand?  Are they equal because they are both children of two people who are older?  Or should the older sibling be treated with the same amount of respect and obedience that would be given to a parent?  And as the older sibling, how do you treat your younger brother or sister?  Do you always look down on them as the baby, as the one who took Mommy and Daddy's attention away from you?  Or do you realize that they grow up just like you did, that they are people, too, that they are not the whiny little brats you remember from your own childhood?  Can there be more than a brother sister relationship?  Can there be friendship?  I think so, as long as both are willing.  I just don't think my sister is.  She'll always look down on me just as much as I always looked up to her.  She'll always see me as nothing more than her baby brother, a snot-nosed nuisance. 

And I'll always see her as my big sister, a stranger.  A bitch with my blood.

home to nothing

"Do you do you like dreaming of things
so impossible or only the practical or ever the wild
or waiting through all your bad bad days
just to end them with
someone you care about...?"
-Dashboard Confessional, So Impossible

"What's it going to take to relax you?" she asked.

"Quitting," I thought to myself.  But I told her I wasn't sure.

She looked around the break room, her eyes searching for a solution.

"Do you need to drink a beer?" she blurted out.

Was my gray-haired grandmother with glasses supervisor suggesting that I start drinking?

"Uh, no, I'm not really into that," I said.

"Oh, well it works for me."  My shock deepened.  It was hard enough to imagine her suggesting alcohol to me and even harder for me to imagine her getting off work and cracking a cold one.  "We gotta find you something."

Duh.  If only she knew I've been searching for years for a way to loosen the knot inside myself.  Food had been my main source of soothing but even that wasn't doing the job like it used to.  The only thing I could think of that was relaxing was writing and I hadn't even had much time to do that with my Harry Potter book and movie marathon I had been working my way through during the last three months.  So, I had to wonder: what would relax me, what could I do to calm down?

Naturally, the new position at work totally sucks.  Yeah, I have more responsibilities and get paid more for them but I don't think it's really worth it.  I have a lot of paper work to do on top of still dealing with annoying and smelly customers.  I also have to do schedules and lucky me, I only have two other people in my department, both of which don't want to work.  One lady stepped down from the supervisor position to work part-time in a different department.  The other lady only wants to work at a minimum and only on certain days.  So, that only makes scheduling more complicated.  And the hours are long.  By the time I get home, it's nearly time to go to bed so I can wake up and do it all again the next day.  And the worst part is I feel pretty much trapped.

A couple of days after I accepted the position, I was having severe reservations about my decision.  I talked to the store manager about it, meaning to tell him I had changed my mind but he informed me he had already replaced me with someone else and to back out now would not only inconvenience everyone he had changed around but would also "leave him in a real bind."  Plus, he had hired more people from outside the store to fill in the empty spaces from the associate rearrangement.  So, I'd be basically screwing over a lot of people if I decided to go back to my department.  Obviously, I couldn't do that.  I was tied down.

It sucked seeing everyone else leave at 4:00, while I was trapped there until 5:30.  And as they walked out the door to freedom, I wondered what they went home to.  Most of them have families.  I think out of about forty people that work there, only five or so are single and even the single ones have children or some sort of family they enjoy.  They go home to friends and family and spouses and I go home to nothing.  Just a nagging mother, indifferent father and a cat who craps everywhere.  Nothing like the smell of feline feces to greet me after a long day of dealing with dunces at work.

I know I should be grateful for my parents and in many ways I am.  They definitely provide for me but they mostly provide financially.  And that's about where it stops.  I think a lot of people are under the impression that presence trumps tenderness.  Yes, my parents are around and I appreciate what they do manage to do for me but I also feel they lack in other areas.  My mother is never satisfied with anything I do, leaving me feeling inadequate.  My father doesn't speak to me, which leaves me feeling unwanted.  Sometimes, being there isn't enough.  Sometimes, criticism and lack of interest can be as damaging as absence.

And I think another paper cut is the fact that I even have to come home to my parents at all.  I should be further along than this.  I should be coming home to my significant other rather than an incontinent cat.  At the very least, I should be coming home to a rockin' bachelor pad.  And while I've managed to suppress those kinds of thoughts, it's in the moments of change that the emptiness echoes around me again.  My defenses are down during change.  When my life is stirred up, so are all of my emotions.

A lot of people tell me I'm too high strung, that I should try pot or alcohol or even sex to loosen up.  The only problem is my morals go against all of these solutions.  That's not to say I haven't thought about them before.  And that's not to say that I wouldn't indulge one of these problem-solvers in the future.  But those aren't really the remedies I'm willing to try at this point.  Sure, it would be nice if I could drown out my doldrums by getting drunk or high or even getting laid but I don't know how healthy those options are.  I've already ruined my body by treating my temperament with Twinkies.  I don't need to become addicted to meth or contract syphilis on top of my other physical defects.  Of course, I'm exaggerating but with my previous history of making my life (and death) so much worse, I wouldn't put a little venereal disease out of the realm of possibility.

STDs aside, I surely wouldn't mind coming home to someone at night, someone who would make me forget about my troubles at work.  And I think that's what most of my coworkers don't understand.  They have that comfort factor, that sense of relief, not grief, from their loved ones when they get off work.  But as for me, I don't feel I have a safety net, no one to calm me down or make me laugh, nothing to ease the tension or smooth out the strain.  I don't have much to look forward to, whether I'm headed home or back to work.    

I just have to wonder if anything will do the job.  I've tried meditation and prayer and none of those techniques feel concrete enough for me to cling to.  I could try pills or liquor but it seems that would only lead to other problems down the road.  And sex would involve the flesh and feelings of someone else and since I don't seem to have my own under control, I'm not sure I'd be able to handle the responsibility of someone else's.  I'm trying to calm myself down, not drum up more discord.

It seems the best course of action would be to exercise.  It's supposed to reduce stress and the waistline but I never felt any better after exercising.  Plus, I'm just too lazy, possibly too far gone to care to change, which is the saddest part of all.  It's just that I have so much going on, so much going wrong, that I wish I could pick apart the problems and take care of them individually.  Unfortunately, the world won't let me take it one gash at a time.  Therefore, it's all too overwhelming to try to tackle so I do what's easiest, which is nothing.  I let it fester, let myself rot more and more each day, and then complain to ease up some of the entropy.  Ultimately, it never gets me anywhere but it does get me by, just like drinking or sex.  Hm, I guess I've always had my own semi-effective soothing mechanism.  So, I guess I don't need the booze or the bodies after all.

I have my own ruminations to keep from unraveling.

job prospect paralysis, part III

I keep getting these job offers that I don't want.  And they keep coming back to haunt me.

First, the cell phone company leaves me hanging for weeks and makes me think they didn't want me, giving me enough time to talk myself out of even wanting it, before they call and say they wanted a second interview.  I turned them down.  Then, the promotion at my current job that fell through in February suddenly came open a few days ago.  Once again, I was given enough time to talk myself out of it and even felt relieved that I didn't get it.  But I was actually singled out for the position this time around.  And no one had to get into a car crash this time around, which was pretty nice.  I don't want to say I was guilted into it, necessarily, but the supervisor made it seem like I was the only reliable choice.  I didn't want to disappoint him and I did need the pay raise so I hesitantly agreed.

Plus, being a supervisor looks good on an resume, right?  'Cause the bachelor's degree sure hasn't been helping.

I think the thing that sucks the most is how I absolutely work myself up into a tizzy about whether or not I should take these jobs.  From the cell phone place to my current job, any time something that could possibly be better was offered, I ended up feeling sick over the decision.  I walked around with heartburn for days, agonizing over whether I should take the chance or wait until something definitely better came along.

The only problem is I have no way of knowing if something better will come along.  Jobs are pretty scarce in general and even more so in my town.  I suppose it's just the fact that I am already so sad and I don't think I could take another disappointment or another crappy job.  It would finally do me in.

My indecisiveness is pretty maddening.  I was always a pretty indecisive person but it really got bad once I went off to college.  I was so sure, so unbelievably sure about going there and in a matter of days it all blew up in my face and radically changed me, from the way I thought and felt to my outlook on life.  It changed my world, and not for the better.  And I think for my first big decision to be such a disaster, it implanted paranoia in my head.  I was never sure of anything after that.  And it's not even about the big stuff, like jobs or education.  A few days ago, I stood in the frozen food section for thirty minutes trying to pick out a pizza to eat that night.  I scanned each one, checking the prices and ingredients and tried to tap into my tummy to find out what it was craving.  I put one pizza in my shopping cart, then put it back, grabbed another and then put that one back as well.  I just wasn't sure what the right choice was.

And so I found myself pondering whether I should take the supervisor position.  I talked to a lot of people and with each person I talked to, I felt differently about taking it.  One person made me feel good, another made me want to retract my acceptance.  I wondered if it would be another bad choice.  Would it be like the old job at the bingo facility where I transferred positions, thinking it would be better, and ended up being worse?

It sucks to be so unsure of things.  And it sucks to feel like the type of person who can't make good decisions, who can never seem to get things right when it comes to making big, or even small, choices.  I'll probably end up sticking with pursuing the new position, and I'm sure I'll regret it, but it's more money and I definitely need that.  I'm just not sure if I need all the extra stress and responsibilities.

I just need to get my book finished so I can send it off to agencies and get a book deal and become comfortable enough to quit retail and not have to worry about any of that anymore.  Or I need to at least hold on to that dream so I don't end up putting my head in the oven.  Hey, if I can't be a writer, at least I can go out like one.  Am I right, ladies?

book notes #6 and more

I didn't want all of my updates to be about book writing but that's basically all I've been doing and as I'm trying to keep this blog updated, I guess that's what I'll update about.  Sorry in advance.

Last month was pretty productive in terms of writing.  I had written approximately 57 pages over the course of two years prior to last month.  It's not as if those 57 pages were perfect and I worked tirelessly every day to make every word gold.  I just wrote for a few weeks and then took a few months off.  Obviously, it was getting me nowhere.  So, after receiving a proof copy of my first novel, it inspired me to forge ahead with my memoir.  And in that month, I wrote another 57 pages.  I still have about 200 to go so I'm nowhere near finished but I'm still plugging away at it.

I have to say I feel good about the book so far.  As I was looking over my notes, it brought back so many details that had gotten lost in the gutter of my head.  Scents, visuals, and even strands of dialogue came back to me as I wrote.  Also, I realized how varied the book will be.  While it focuses on my time in college, it also addresses a wide variety of issues that I dealt with before I even stepped foot in school and issues that I'm still dealing with today.  I think once it's finished it'll give a pretty good picture of who I was as a whole, not just a college student.  We've got God and sex and art and mental health and death and eating disorders.

And the best part about it so far is that it's been fun to write.  Not only do I feel like I'm working with some good material but it's just been enjoyable to go back and relive those moments.  Even the not so good times were worth revisiting because it's been pretty therapeutic overall and has given me a bit more perspective on things.

In other news, I feel like I have completely disconnected myself from the real world.  My mind has been filled with writing two books and reading Harry Potter with any spare time I have and I haven't left much mental energy to concentrate on the issues that are slowly dissolving me into a second death.  My existence is in shambles and I've just been ignoring it by placing my priorities elsewhere.  I hate my job but I've all but given up on finding something else because there is nothing here for me.  I hate my body but I'm too lazy to exercise and I'm too depressed to eat healthy because fattening foods make me feel better, no matter how short-lived the feeling may be.  It's better than the emptiness.  At least that's what I try to tell myself.  I know better but I ignore it.

If I had to work in retail, I wish that I could work somewhere a bit more upscale, somewhere where the customers observe a minimum standard of hygiene, like bathing and brushing their teeth.  I had one gentleman shuffle his way into my department the other day and as I was processing his transaction, I literally had to hold my breath.  The body odor was so strong it was sharp, like it was stabbing my face.  Naturally, it took him several minutes to get the change back into his wallet.  Her gingerly eased the money in as I began to turn blue and become lightheaded.  I actually had to turn around and take a breath before going back in.  I don't deserve this.

There are three other coworkers besides myself who have bachelor's degrees.  And none of us can find anything better than crappy part-time work with this company.  I think it's kind of sad.  One's in business, the other in education, the other in social work.  I think they still stand a better chance at finding something than I do, at least something relatively nearby.  But the fact that they can't find work still makes me feel bad for them.  We all spent so much time and money to become educated, to do better for ourselves, and we are all still stuck.  And also in student loan debt on top of that.

The lady from the wireless phone company finally called me back the other day.  I had actually given up on getting a call back and put it out of my mind so when she called, I was surprised.  Obviously, I wasn't going to take it.  I had already decided that, especially when my work said they wouldn't let me stay on with them if I took the full-time job.  I didn't want to risk leaving something secure to jump into something I wasn't sure would work out.  I'm not a daredevil like that.

The funny thing is I wanted them to call me back even though I wasn't going to accept.  I just needed to know that they wanted me, that I was good enough.  But after I started thinking about it, I realized I was good enough.  I rocked that interview so hard and I am darn good at customer service, although I loathe it.  I pretty much hate all people but I am awesome at pretending I don't.  I realized I didn't need their validation and I was proud of myself for owning that.  But, I got the validation anyway so I had to make an awkward phone call back to the lady to explain to her that I was no longer interested in the position.  I wondered why it took her so long to call back as she told me it would be two days but instead it was around two weeks.  She never gave me an explanation so I'll never know.  My paranoid mind thinks she might have hired someone else and they didn't work out?  So I was second best.  Or maybe she just got busy.  I don't know and I don't have the energy to care.  It's done.

Plus, she kept calling me Brandon.  I hate that.  Even during the interview with my application sitting right in her lap, she called me Brandon.  People have done that all of my life.  When I'm at work, people read my name badge and call me Brandon.  Most of my teachers from middle and high school still know me as Brandon.  It really makes me feel good about who I am.  Thank you.