Issue #16 The Enormity of It All

Recently I was at Kroger finishing the last of our errands when I came across a strapping young lad wiping down the dust from the top shelves. He walked, slowly, with the rag in his right hand, down the aisle, turned and came back. He looked bored. I would be bored. It's honest work and I suppose you could do far worse for $9 (and up! the "we're hiring" sign proclaims) an hour — but I'm not sure for which or what or whom.
 

I panic if something doesn't change, and soon, that very well could be me with a rag in my hand, wandering dumbly down an aisle, wiping the detritus of the store while life, it seems, does pass on by.
 

#
 

Someone suggested I sell blood or plasma but I give false-positives for Babesiosis, a Lyme-disease variant, so that is out of the question.

#
 

The last few weeks are the ending of a lot of things. The front-end web development course I was taking has been completed (I graduated); I've been sent on my merry little way, with home exercises natch, from my chiro but he's suggesting I see a foot/ankle guy about other options besides surgery (which having gone through this in 2012 and being laid up for nearly a year, I am not in favor of); my unemployment checks will be ending; and I am in the process of getting quotes to sell Jeeves (my MINI Cooper). After months of having a fairly busy schedule with things now I am at a loss on what to do. This is my existential crisis — I now have the time to work on the projects I love where as before my time was sucked up by course work, looking for job work, and housework. After all of this time, I can finally sit down and do the work I want to do such as write, specifically on my novel.

Except! Except! Except! I am paralyzed with fear doing anything and as I recently wrote on my writing blog,
 

I’m panicking and panicking hard. ( I keep saying this and yes, I know this means what I think it means.)

I decided today was going to be the day to begin. Pens were clicked and the book’s notebook first pages were smoothed down. A new folder was created in my bookmarks manager and I moved over URLs from the before (because there will always be a before) to the new folder. I dug through some previously read books with bibliographies and added those books to my own growing bibliography. I started to list  topics I needed to cover (general history, fashion, women actresses, women photographers) adding in broad search topics such as “belle epoque” (French version of Edwardian), “art nouveau,” “spiritualism,” “Edwardian postcards,” and “gibson girl.” I found myself on a Wikipedia rabbit hole bookmarking anything that looked remotely interesting while my chest got heavier and I clicked my pen open to close. Open to close.

An hour or two into this exercise, I got a bee in my bonnet I needed to have a Coke Slurpee which put TEH and me on a scavenger hunt around town (nearest 7-11 is 200 miles away so we settled for Speedway freezee). Then I read Facebook. Checked email. Bemoaned the state of interlibrary lending in the state of Kentucky and found a workaround which led to randomly checking to see what books could be available for me to get via ILL. Checked Facebook again. Wrote a few lines for this post. Contacted the local university (U of L) to see if they had some kind of visiting patron cards available rather than having to wait six weeks for materials to arrive at my local library. I ate Cool Ranch Dorritos, wiping finger crumbs on a damp cloth napkin, while I sucked down 44 oz of frozen, slushy Coke deliciousness. I took my hair out of the bun and shook it free, spending a few minutes combing it to let my hair “breathe.” I’ve come back and forth Facebook, rabbit hole now on non-related topics, writing here, eating something, kissing TEH.

I need to breathe, not just my hair.

#

Something needs to change but I'm not quite sure what which is the problem. Have you ever seen the Gwenyth Paltrow delightful movie, Sliding Doors? No? It's a late '90s romcom that ponders the question, "What would happen if you did something differently?" In this case, Paltrow's life takes two very different paths depending on whether or not she catches the train on her way home from work. I've been enthralled with this idea of how choices, no matter how minute, can change our lives. So, now, what can I do differently to change my life? How do I approach something so I'm not making the same mistakes over and over again? 

Except! Except! Except! I am paralyzed with fear and have no fucking idea. I need some sort of direction, anything, to give me a hint on which path to follow but when I ask around, beg even, people clam up and shrug their shoulders. Their own life is hard, man. They don't know what to tell me.

#

I spent most of Tuesday in bed watching telly on my iPad. I got up long enough to pee and walk the dog, and I think there was some peanut butter toast involved at one point. As I laid in bed, all I could think is this what is my life — doing housework, watching telly, and eating peanut butter toast?

I thought about what it would be to die. I am not suicidal but I understand quite plainly why suicide can be so attractive. I cried to TEH about my purpose in life — what is my purpose? And he reminds what Andy always says, "Let the feelings come and pass. Feelings cannot hurt you, they are just thoughts and they can pass without harm." But I clutch at those feelings until my knuckles are white and my breathing becomes heavy. I get so tired being cheerful and optimistic because it seems no matter how much of a go-getter I am, nothing is getting. My talking shrink says I have made so much progress, I'm so self-aware and so talented. I argue I no longer have any relevance in the world. I have no profession, no career, no money, no sense of self-worth. I miraculously keep my self-respect in check — I am trying so hard to not give into these feelings! – but there are days, like Tuesday, when I just have to take a break from the fighting and pretend for a little while I no longer exist and frankly, the number of people who would care I was gone would be tiny indeed. I no longer offer something of value to the world and the world has indeed passed on by. #
  Jeeves was the first big thing I bought with my own money that was custom made for me. People will shake their heads but Jeeves defined my financial self-worth. When I get into Jeeves, I feel happier and there was a sense of freedom even drugs could not replicate. I want to take long road trips. I sometimes hug and kiss him for moving me from place to place. He has been personalized with stickers and geegaws. He has personality and he is mine.

Jeeves represents what money I have left in the world. I spent nearly $40K in credit card debt across four cards from 2014 to mid-2015. I don't have anything to show for it. I'm now down to $19K and three cards with a $3K card paid off in March from my tax refund. Selling Jeeves would allow me to pay off another card and half of a third and coupled with no car insurance, parking space, or car related things (he was paid off with the remnants of the divorce) and with my credit card monthly payments greatly reduced, I will not be that much of a financial strain on TEH. 

Selling Jeeves is financially responsible. This is what adulting is but selling him feels like the end of the world because everything that was once of great importance to me: my job, my husband, my reputation, has been obliviated by my own hand and now my car will be gone too. TEH, and a few others admittedly, cannot understand my attachment to my car even after the explanation given above. I liken it to when I got Wednesday the pug. I sat on the floor of Ex-Fiance #2's aunt's house, pugs all around, when Wednesday climbed up into my lap and feel asleep. All four weeks old and she chose me. Wednesday taught me a lot of what unconditional love meant and she was my best friend and side kick for 14 years. Thursday the pug loves me fiercely and she's a good dog, but she's not Wednesday. While it's terrible to compare the dogs, they are entirely separate beings in their own right, I cannot help but love Wednesday just a little bit more. (Then I feel guilty and spoil Thursday to prove I love her too. As long as she gets pets, food, watered, treats, and the ability to sleep on / near me, Thursday is not aware of my guilt but that doesn't stop the guilt from coming.)

TEH has a MINI purchased last year when I took off to the east coast for a gig. It's a 2016 Countryman S Park Lane whom we've named Mortimer. It has all the bells and whistles like Jeeves except it is a few years newer, gray with orange trim, and has a few more doodads. The car was bought off the lot and while it is perfect for TEH, it was not built for him specifically. Mortimer is a perfectly fine car — it has the getup and go like Jeeves, handles nearly identical to Jeeves, and has the same engine. I just do not feel the same when I drive Mortimer. I do not long for road trips, I do not feel free. I am acutely aware it is not my car even though TEH was gracious to put me on Mortimer's insurance. Like Wednesday to Thursday, it is just not the same.

Part of my fear selling Jeeves is my only option to leave if things get bad will be gone. But who am I kidding? TEH has stood by me through all of this and remains steadfastly at my side without a single micro-ounce of a waiver of support. I know he's not going to leave me. We know I'm not going to leave him.

But yet, here we are. By the weekend I will, without question, wholly dependent on TEH and that lack of freedom, even as an illusion, will be gone.

  # Jeeves hasn't been driven but five times in the last six months. He needs someone to love him and cherish him just as I love and cherish him. He needs to stretch his legs and feel the wind blow across his bonnet. These are things I cannot give him and that is acutely painful.
  #
When I write things like these, the first inclination people have is to tell me they love me. They tell me I have worth and I'm important to the world. I am important to them. They feel these things strongly and they wonder how they can help me. 

Please don't tell me these things. Don't tell me you love me, I'm important, and the world will be a sadder place without me. These things are not helpful. I do not want to hear these things. If you persist, I will not acknowledge you, thank you or tell you that I love you too. 

Sometimes we just need to voice the things in our head when they are painful and they hurt us. I am keenly afraid I may be having another psychotic break. Maybe I'm depressed again. Maybe my mania of feeling good despite the war inside my head is just that — mania. 

I don't know. 

All I know is I will cry, I will sleep, I will wake up with some kind of sliver of renewed purpose and I will try to fight again until I am weary again, which seems to cycle shorter and shorter, and yet too stubborn to give in.