I wrote this September 13, 2016 and never published it. The cruel shoes still fit just as painfully poorly (cruel shoes, remember Steve Martin anyone?), so I’m publishing it because I don’t have the motivation to write something new or the talent to write something better. Readers beware, it’s gonna be a bumpy hayride and I can already smell the tractor diesel and smoke, musty wet hay, field-rotting pumpkins, and horse shit.
I’m supposed to muster up something. It’s supposed to be pleasant and motivational and encouraging. Except I have these issues. I have these wants. It’s possible I’m completely normal and I should be able to do everything I need to do.
It’s also possible I’m mostly dead, barely able to wiggle a finger, and I’m supposed to carry the scene, starting at 1:44, here:
Confession: I AM bluffing, and everybody knows it. I’ve got nothing. Not even a sword. Well, no. I do have a sword, I just don’t have the strength to lift it. Some people say “the world is my oyster,” or whatever other positivism nonsense I’m supposed to make sense of. If it’s my oyster, damned if I have the tools to crack that fucker open, and if I did, I’d end up with a broken shell of a broken world, no pearls, and everybody pointing their fingers at me, the one who broke it for no reason. “I mean, what the hell is wrong with you, Deon?! Everything was fine until you fucked everything up!” Except I haven’t touched it, it broke when I turned around just to prove to me that the universe fucker works overtime at making life suck for me, for everyone. I want him dead, or I want out of the game.
Somehow along the way I have either attached myself to, or become attached to, people who expect me to do things: Continue to flirt while understanding and accepting rejection. Continue to have the energy to do household chores while bearing the burdens of depression and loss and failure and a lack of any kind of motivation. Continue to provide leadership and guidance with homework and social development, and assistance in and participation in community service. I’m supposed to feel guilty when I can’t keep up with everything, and not shut down and move away from or be upset with anyone who needs my emotional support, ignoring my own wants. They must be “wants,” because I’m supposed to have a God who provides everything I “need.”So if it isn’t provided, obviously I don’t “need” it. Except I think I do.
I’m supposed to listen and pay attention to everything everyone else wants me to attend, because that’s more important than whatever I am already attending and listening to. I’m supposed to be able to tap into some elusive, deep well of hope and faith and love for people who offer something else, or soul-emptying nothingness and demands for more in return. I’m also supposed to harness the time I don’t have to complete things with the energy I don’t have. I’m not supposed to need anything, and I’m supposed to be able to provide everything out of nothing. Last time I checked, the only being capable of creation ex nihilo was God. Everyone else is subject to the laws of nature.
It’s possible I’m only venting my spleen because I’m angry at God and taking it out on everyone else, including myself. I’ve felt abandoned. The expression “left high and dry” doesn’t really fit, because while I feel completely dry, waiting to blow away (get on with it, “let’s go already!”(Futurama’s character, Bender)) I am anything BUT high. Plus, back in time, some people left Jesus high and dry, but I don’t want to be Jesus. I just want to be Deon, but certain people wonder why I can’t be Jesus, and raise myself and them, from death and depression and destruction.
That, friends, is why I have nothing. It’s why I’ve been spotty lately with the blog. It’s why on the weekends I do my level best to do jack shit. Because I’m completely fucking empty, and I need three refills to stop feeling desiccated. My friend’s recent death, honestly sucked ass. All death sucks ass. My mum called me, bless her heart, concerned that I might switch from side effect to suicidal inclinations because she heard how my new med is affecting me and then talked to her friends who do nursing or something. Mum, I don’t want to die, I want to live but I want it better.
I’m still mostly dead and I don’t have a Miracle Max special pill. Even the music I try to listen to isn’t filling me enough. It gets interrupted anyway. I get interrupted. Because what I say doesn’t carry any importance. What I want isn’t important. No one out in my day-to-day world gives a shit that they are killing me. I’m like something annoying or gross that they scrape off their shoe. If it wasn’t for my blog, I might think those darker thoughts. I wouldn’t trade you readers (both of you) and writers (several of you) in for anything. It would be too high a price to pay. If I could do what my non-readers wanted me to do, they’d only find a way to ask for more. Ever heard “the task expands to fill and expand the time allotted for it?” How about “debt’s appetite is never satisfied?” Yeah, that’s my real world experience.
I need something and I’m not getting it. All you self-help people? (stop reading or accept a half-assed apology for the following- click out, I mean it, here it comes last chance) Fuck you. I’m tired of being told what to do so I can do what I need to do or have what I need to have, what to do to muster the energy to do what I’m supposed to do… I’m tired of being told the solutions are available and all I have to do is whatever the fuck program with anywhere from one to twelve steps. I’m tired of being told the answer is inside me, because there’s nothing there, and if it’s there I lost it. I’ve got shit, jack shit, and fuck all, and what I need isn’t something I see anywhere on the horizon, like that cruise ship that’s supposed to show up for the guy stranded on the desert island, full of food, drinks, and available hot women for him to choose from. I don’t want a cruise ship, it’s a metaphor for what I need.
I’m Doctor Campbell from “Medicine Man.” “Haven’t you ever lost anything, Doctor Bronx? Your purse? Your car keys? Well, it’s rather like that: Now you have it and now you don’t.”
I say that because I used to almost have it. I used to have almost enough whatever I needed to do almost whatever I needed. Never quite enough, but somehow enough. I used to have almost enough faith. Well, now it’s not enough. Or less than not enough because I’m always had not enough and now not enough is bigger than what used to be not enough. Not enough left inside, not enough faith, not enough provision, not fucking enough and there isn’t any more to be had and if there is, I can’t get it because my morals prevent me from stealing from innocent people, being shady and catching that extra $30K to $100K that I actually NEED on the sly, or murdering guilty people who should have taken better care of me and treated me fairly and they didn’t, or “just” getting a second full-time job while maintaining my present level of responsible involvement and volunteerism and not dying in the process, for several years, until I’m out of debt and the kids are finished with college.
You demanding people, fuck you too. You are asking a stone to become bread, a serpent to become a ready-to-eat fish sandwich, and Jesus wouldn’t even do that when he was starving to death. If I knew how, like Jesus, I still wouldn’t do it for you. You’d only find another fucking stone instead of mixing up and kneading dough and baking it your damned selves. You’d pick up another snake and then ask me to treat your snakebite and oh by the way can you make that into a nice hot fish sandwich for me? (See Matthew 7:9-11) Fuck you, I’m done because I never was able to do what you wanted me to do in the first place. Not for lack of trying. Not for lack of nearly succeeding, only to realize I never reached the mark and never could reach the mark. You wanted the extra that I didn’t have, like a mugger who takes every penny, that’s not enough so he steals your identity for a fast buck and then just for kicks, because that wasn’t enough, stabs you and shoots you just to watch you bleed and then, runs over you with his car a few times because you weren’t dying fast enough.
I have always tried. And sometimes I have almost succeeded. I’ve gotten close enough to get by, after begging for forgiveness for not having enough, and people keep coming to me like I’m somehow going to have enough next time. They are insane. Because they think it’ll be different when they come to me again. Bill collectors. Wife. Kids. Church. Work. Volunteer things. You all want too much, and give back not enough or nothing.
I’ve basically even shut down from church, something I’m aware is not the right choice. I still attend but I used to actually be involved and doing extra things. I liked it, but it became another thing that took and didn’t deliver dividends on the investment. This is the one area of life I thought would have synergy, but instead, not so much.
This is called burnout. And I have commitments that will keep me on a slow burn for a while. And I have debts that will keep me forcing myself to move longer than that.
There’s a joke I’m surprised I remembered, and it’s “I did some calculations, and I’m so far behind I’ll finally be catching up and might break even, 300 years after I’m dead.” Ha-fucking-ha.