There are times when I want to be alone. There are other times when I feel like real life is like having been shipped off to 75-year-long summer camp with a bunch of idiots I don’t like, and I’d kill for an encouraging note or telephone call from one of my friends, or someone in my family.
Life sucks. And I DO isolate myself, I confess. I swear, nobody knows the real Deon, not even Deon. And I get depressed because of that, and then spiral out to hyperbolic reasoning, that because nobody is talking to me, nobody gives a shit. I start with home, where if I do it it’s taken for granted as expected, and if I don’t do it, it’s because I don’t manage my time well enough, not because I’m fucking depressed and don’t want to fucking move, and then I get tired and fall asleep sometimes between the hours of 3:30am and 5 or 6:00am, on a fairly routine basis. Sometimes I’ll sleep longer, but the medication causes insomnia.
I move on to thinking about family, where no one comes over because our dog is a wild beast who hates everyone because of some past trauma, so he wants to eat you if you show any fear, but loves you forever if you give him chicken or pepperoni or whatever the flavor of the day is. The spoiled little shit. And no one comes over because it’s too far, although we moved here to be closer to family so we could see them more often than when the drive was about 10 hours. We still see them once in a while. It’s a little more frequent, but we drive over to them, 30 minutes for one side of the family, 3 or 4 hours for the other side of the family. We sometimes send each other greeting cards. I have a birthday card I need a stamp for, for one of my family. And no one comes over because they have a life and they’re busy living their life.
My immediate family is too busy in their own depressed shit, they don’t want to hear my suggestions for anything, and they treat me about like I get from work- they expect everything, and give nothing. I did a service project Saturday, vacuumed carpets and mowed the grass on Sunday to spite my back from the service project, and today spent my breaks and lunch emptying the lint filter, the trash and recycling and putting away dishes from the dishwasher and drying rack, and washing all of the pans. No fucking break. And when I get home tonight after delivering my son to his social engagement, all the dishes will be dirty again so I get to do it all over again, if I have the motivation. They love to correct me when my thinking doesn’t match theirs, or shut me up if I have a suggestion, or just flat out tell me “no.”
I move on to work, where co-workers on the same level as me commiserate, but management couldn’t give a half a fuck about me as long as I do my job, but bitch up a storm when I don’t. Ass holes. No encouragement, no concern, no cost of living raises, no bonuses, nothing. And they make it hard to take time off, so why should I even try to schedule it when it’s probably going to be denied, but the whole time they act like it’s my fault and why haven’t I taken it?
So yeah. When my dear daughter, who sometimes is depressed, cries about her loneliness, I suggested that she contact one of her old friends from High School that she maybe hasn’t heard from in a while. She cried and said she thinks they’re all too busy living their college lives. But maybe, I thought out loud, one of her friends is as scared and isolated and lonely as she is, and would just about kill for an encouraging, or funny, or supportive, or bitch-about-life, note, or a call, from a friend or a family member.
So today, I got an email from one of my blogger friends, and she told me about something happy and positive, and I got a good smile and even a little laugh from a picture she sent. She didn’t have to do that. But I LOVE her for doing it.
Mrs M., although not offering a resounding response to my last bitch-fest, did, in her own quiet way, affirm that she loves me, and assured me that the rumor I hyperbolized was most emphatically NOT TRUE, despite the wisdom of the Latin saying, in vino veritas. I’ll have to take her word for it, because I wasn’t there except in my sickened, jealous, possibly overactive, but still uncertain, imagination.
My blogger friends: IF you can muster the energy to be someone’s encouragement, IF you can get past your own feelings, be that. The person you show up for may, like me, be in a depressed state because life sucks and isolation sucks and all their friends are busy living life and don’t have time to contact them, and the job sucks, and everything would fall to shit around them if they didn’t do something, but they don’t have any energy to do shit so they just watch the avalanche of shit falling all around them, and on top of them.
On today, when I was seriously surrounded and covered by the avalanche of shit, and would have just about fucking killed for a nice note from a friend because of the above, (she’s going to love/hate me for this) thank GOD, that unvoiced request was granted, and she was the instrument of His peace (see also the prayer, attributed to St. Francis of Assisi).
Dear God, It’s me, Deon. About the other requests… if you can send a few other instruments of Your peace, and soon, I’ll write even more affirming things about answers to prayers in my blog. Which I really want to do. Even if the orchestra members show up one at a time, please send them soon. If you could help Mrs. M. create that resounding reply, and give her the courage to play that, THAT would be completely amazing.
Anyway, readers, if you can, play your love song for someone, or if it isn’t love, then your like-song. You may think it’s stupid and not worth playing, but please, play it. Someone needs to hear it. It may be off key, but it may be the best song they’ve heard in a while. If you’ve been isolated and feel lonely, I want you to know that although I’m trapped in a head-high mud (please don’t tell me, I know what it really is made of but I want to be in denial) funk, I’m out here, and I care about you in spite of how trapped I feel. If I can only make a difference by writing, then so be it- that’s my song, and I’m playing it the best I can, for you. Forgive a few shitty notes. I don’t really feel that I play all that well.