Well, I thought that setting a schedule for myself would make writing happen. I ought to know better than that, but “hope springs eternal,” as they say. It’s been… a while since my last post, although the ideas swirling around and the mental first-draft paragraphs are always with me…
I’m going to attempt a wider-than-the-week Rave/Rant post, though my focus will be on this last 7-day period.
RAVE: Last night I went to see a play. It was George Bernard Shaw’s “You Never Can Tell,” and it was delightful! I’d heard that there was a local production, and that it was in its last week, so I mentioned to The Rabbit that it was going on and (although it took her from Sunday to Thursday morning to actually get around to it) she got tickets and we went to see. It was my first time seeing a production by that particular company, and although I’d been saying that it was my first exposure to Shaw, I realized that I’m at least indirectly familiar with his work through “My Fair Lady” — I grew up on that movie, and bits of it still come to mind easily (for example, Rex Harrison’s “Damn, damn, damn, damn!” when I’m frustrated at a realization of my own faults and the accompanying realization that I have the obligation to be a better person in the future.)
RANT: Much of the week following my last post, The Rabbit was out of town. She didn’t, however, provide me with much in the way of specifics about her expected departure or return, and even less in the form of written reference. She pays me to keep an eye on her cat and her house while she’s away, but the amount she left was considerably less than what I seemed to recall her having promised before, and I ended up having to change and cancel at the last minute plans I’d made — and looked forward to — thanks to her lack of communication (which, if you’ve read much of my previous work here, you’ll know has been a consistent thorn in my side. I don’t deal well with assumption, with passive-aggressive attempts at saying what you don’t really mean in order to get me to somehow guess at what you want to communicate, with being left in the dark more often than not.) I also ended up having to clean up a huge mess of feline vomit and feces one of those nights when I’d expected her to already be back in town, when I was already exhausted, mostly ready for bed, and not at all prepared to deal with trying to keep myself from throwing up while I bent down to scoop up shit from the middle of a puddle of puke on the kitchen floor. I did at least have a sarcastic laugh in realizing that at least it was on the linoleum, rather than the shag carpet which would have perfectly matched the shade of those bodily fluids, and made the cleanup more effort than I would have been willing to invest.
RANT: She and I ended up fighting quite a bit via email — or, at least, I penned honest and vulnerable but quite angry missives to her, saying things I’ve avoided bringing up which are, which have been, consistent problems… and at least at first she bothered to touch on a couple of the points brought up (like considerably under-paying me for housesitting and pet care) but then just completely stopped responding. She seems convinced that ignoring problems will make them go away. Meanwhile, back over here in reality, her unwillingness to even attempt to engage with me when I say “look, this thing you’re doing is causing me real and significant harm, could you please do something about it? Or if you’re not going to do something about it, could you even manage to just tell me it’s not gonna happen so I can resign myself to that fact? Can you give me anything to work with?” isn’t making those problems go away. It’s just slowly eroding my sanity and leaving me even less capable of coping with everything.
RAVE: I… think I met someone? I’m frightened to be too hopeful just yet, but she’s gorgeous, we get along beautifully, we share many interests and our conversation flows easily, her worldviews and outlook have, so far over the few evenings we’ve shared together, seemed sensible and sane — even on a few topics that are often quite divisive. And, of course, she’s absolutely sexy as fuck. I did mention that, I suppose, but… yeah. And… she understands (and has lived with) the repeated pain of having someone wonderful suddenly vanish, often without warning or explanation. That shared vulnerability means a lot to me. We haven’t yet had any discussion about “what are we/what would we like to be.” it’s early for that, but I’m hopeful despite myself.
RAVE/RANT: I went back to look through my dad’s poetry tonight. He and I haven’t… really… been on very good terms… in a long time. But back in the middle of 2014, after nearly 2 years of silence from him, he provided me with access to the section of his website he’d made private which contains a database of his poetry, stuff he’s written over the last nearly 20 years. That came after I mentioned to my mom (who I talk with on the phone fairly often) that I’d noticed it was suddenly no longer public; I occasionally find myself seeking comfort or consolation or creative spark from his writing, and I’ve told him so. (He’d tucked things away behind a password so that he could submit his work to potentially be published in places that ask for new or unpublished work.) That’s the good part. The not-so-good part is, as I was reading through one after another of his most recent work, from the past 3 or 4 months… suddenly I saw “Internal Server Error” pages for a short time, and then a page stating that the poetry section was “temporarily unavailable.” While my rational mind keeps repeating to me that the simplest explanation is that there really was some sort of error, and that it’s just a temporary server issue… my emotions and anxiety keep trying to tell me that he noticed the access, that he suspects it was me (I know that at least at one point, and likely still, he had his own custom-coded analytics and access logs that recorded basic stuff like which poems were accessed, at what times, and from which IP addresses, and I do have a few favorites which I stopped on before checking out his latest) and that he is purposely blocking me from seeing his writing. But, I also recognize that my anxious mind often comes up with elaborate scenarios in which people’s behavior is intentionally malicious and designed to show hate or anger or disgust towards me, while I work hard to amplify the sensible side saying “It’s not about you! Don’t attribute to malice what can be more easily blamed on error, accident, circumstance, or idiocy!” So… I don’t know.
RANT: I’m still often not getting out of the house at all. It can be a week or more between me getting out, and often that’s “getting out of bed.” The last week has been better with that, and it really does make a huge fucking difference in keeping the depression at bay… though obviously it doesn’t eliminate it completely. Monday I was out for my weekly therapist appointment, and it was a really emotionally intense session. I hadn’t really grasped how hard it had hit me until a while later, and I suddenly recognized how dark a place I was, how much I was stuck in the “I don’t want to exist” pit.
RAVE: Despite that, I’ve also had a few days so far this week which I’ve spent getting better acquainted with a cute little cafe I’d only been to a couple of times before, and then spending time soaking in a lovely hot tub in a lovely garden nearby. It’s self-care, and some particular forms of that which I’ve not done very much of in a long while. Small steps.
RAVE: Being able to share company with a whole lot of different cool people recently. There are folks out there who not only indulge me by listening to my puns and quips, but appreciate them and share their own back. People who like hearing me break into song at the slightest reference, and it hasn’t felt like I’m just being used as a party trick to get a few giggles, but that my contributions are genuinely desired and bring heartfelt smiles. It feels weird, but good-weird, and I’m recognizing as I write this that I hesitate to say “friends…” but I think that’s what I have around me more and more often. And of course, as soon as I say that, my brain launches into the thousands of reasons that it’s not really “friends” I have, and the countless things that I still lack. But I’m doing my best to shut that voice up, because, quite frankly, it’s full of shit, and I deserve to let myself believe the good things that I have instead of dismissing them out of hand. It’s work. Hard work. And it’s uncomfortable. But unlearning broken scripts, changing the things I do when they no longer serve me, adapting to what really does bring pleasure… is often an uncomfortable, messy process. But it’s worth it. So very, very worth it. Patience.