I feel sort of okay, now — which is probably why I’m so hesitant to post. I was half-way through typing the headline when I noticed that my mouse pad was covered with cat hair, and went to get a lint-roller to clean it up. So dedicated am I to not posting, it seems.
I want to get out all my thoughts, but I find so many of them to be overblown cliches. This tends to make them sound ridiculous out loud.
Been going down-hill the last few days, and I’ve been meaning to write about it. Apparently, writing (if that’s what this is) has become one of those things from which I’m capable of completely distracting myself. That probably means it’s good for me, and I should do more of it.
(Unless I’m wrong, and I just don’t want to get dragged down into thinking that away again because I’m okay right now, in which case I shouldn’t try to retrace the steps that led me to where I was…)
Talked to my family more often than usual this week, although it’s not a lot: a phone call each for my parents and sister. They tend to upset me, but it’s no fault of theirs. Part of it is that I associate them with my childhood, and with things that No Longer Are, and things that Should Have Been.
I left them a long time ago, and they’re not the people I left. Or maybe they are, and I’m not the person I was. I really don’t know, but everything just feels wrong. I love them all dearly, I think. I don’t see how I can be anything but a disappointment to them.
I’m supposed to go out to Cookeville this weekend. Some old family friends are in town, as well as a nephew and two nieces that I haven’t seen in a long time. I don’t know if I’ll actually go. I was certain I wouldn’t, but now that I’m “sort of okay,” it’s alright.
My job is infuriating. Had planned to go to the Saucer with some folks from work, but the… the constant fucking insanity at that place had me too pissed off to see straight when I left this afternoon.
I spent most of the trip home trying to convince myself that I should buy a bunch of liquor, leave the sliding door open for Shada, pour a bunch of food out for her… and try to drink myself to death. I wanted to talk to someone, to just spill all this bile out of me and cry until I fell asleep, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t justify talking to anyone. I went through everyone I could think of in my head, and didn’t want to burden any of them with yet another round of Jim’s-being-all-weepy crap. Because I know it’d just happen again. And again. And again.
I stopped at the little Italian place and sat in the car for a bit before going in. I ordered a sub; they’re pretty good.
There was a man and his daughter at a nearby table, reading something about insects. She can’t have been more than six or seven (surely not seven?), but she was pronouncing words like “metamorphosis” and “chrysalis” with no trouble.
I don’t know if I ever wanted children. I thought I did; maybe I assumed that one day I’d grow up and become my father, and a family was just part of that.
I might write more later. I can’t focus on this right now, and I don’t want to bring that mood back.