Thought I had therapy today, but apparently not.

Want to call my therapist to confirm but I lost his number when Google Keep didn’t keep it. Apparently Chrome hiccupped and logged me out of my main Google account, and I have forgotten the password to the main one, and there is literally no way for me to get the password back because every one of the methods they offer involves an email address I can no longer access, or a phone number I no longer have, or some other god damned thing on this Kafka-esque merry-go-round.

So all that information is gone to me. All my phone numbers, a bunch of passwords for other sides, a host of story ideas, various other info-bits – locked away forever.

I dunno. Maybe I can get them on the phone somehow. Or otherwise prove my identity in a way that is actually available to me.

But this question of identity can’t help but feel existential to me. I am reminded of all the dreams I have had where I am defending my right to exist.

Those always end with me screaming myself hoarse into the black void.

Glad I don’t remember much of them, to be honest. Just the basic plot. I get the feeling they would not make me happy if I remembered more.

Besides, I can justify my existence, at least on good days.

I have the same right to exist, be present, take up resources, take up space, have my needs met, and get what I need to thrive as anyone else.

The sad thing is that I have to keep reminding myself of that because of how I was treated by my family as a child.

That feeling of total negation of all rights, including existence, is still quite strong in me. I can handle it when I am calm and writing about it like this, but it is still my default state and thus is always waiting in the shadows for a chance to reassert itself.

So it’s a struggle. I feel like I passed a major milestone when I realized that mental health requires a constant investment of personal energy – energy I was conserving because I thought of my energy as scarce.

It’s exactly like how so-called “austerity” programs meant to see government through tough times actually make those tough times far worse.

Now knowing I need to “give back” those energies I stupidly stole from very important mood support systems and actually doing it are two different things.

That’s why their names are different.

Right now, it’s hard for me to focus enough to do it consciously. But I have been feeling pretty good overall lately, so maybe I am learning it subconsciously.

Plus, the fact that I have the prospect of gainful employment in my chosen field and get to talk to these great guys who seem to like me and my writing sure as hell brightens up my dark and gloomy little world.

Here’s hoping I land the gig and start making serious money and can finally get off disability and start living my life.

I know there’s lots of things you can do without money – but cash makes one hell of a good security blanket.

More after the break.

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Better than the drive-in

I don’t like eating in cars.

You can blame my dad for that. He made me so scared to drip or drop or smear anything that the whole thing became tense and unpleasant.

He could do that with anything. It’s a special gift that he had.

I still feel intense panic when trying to buy shoes.

As a result of his irrational anger, when I was out on my own, I put effort into avoiding eating in cars, even when I had to be a pain to do it.

“I want a sit-down restaurant!”, I would whine. “Or maybe we could find somewhere with picnic tables and have a picnic.”

Anything but eating in the damned car. Sorry, miss, but I clearly asked for my meal to be panic attack free.

And so I went decades without eating in a car once.

But then Covid happened, and the only way I could get to see my best friend and comedienne extraordinaire Felicity Walker was by eating in Joe’s car while it was parked next to Felicity’s in the McDonald’s parking lot.

And the first few times were rough. I had a panic attack on the back burner of my mind the whole time. But I soldiered on.

And I am cool with it now. I would still prefer to eat at a table, but the panic is long gone.

For one thing, Joe is way less angry and scary than my Dad. i know that if I accidentally make a mess, he won’t scream at me.

But for the most part,. it hasn’t come up. Turns out I am totally competent to eat a meal in a car without wrecking the interior.

I’m as surprised as you are.

Lately, though, with the air outside being toxic because the world’s on fire – turns out Covid was just 2020’s opening act – our parking lot confabs are on hold.

Now, and how sad is this, we get our food separately and “teledine” together via Zoom.

There was a time when I thought “teledining” as it was presented in 80’s futurism was the saddest thing in the world.

And I still do.

But it beats the hell out of not seeing Felicity at all.

Still, the Big Mac levels in my bloodstream were dipping, so I ordered in.

And I have to say, it was rather nice to eat it sitting down properly, in my cozy bedroom, with the ghost of my father far, far away.

If you’re reading this from beyond the grave, Dad, just know that your anger became my anxiety, and that’s true for Anne, Catherine, and David too.

Hell, Mom too.

So if you want to know why your genius son never went anywhere in life. it’s directly because of you.

When you took me out of college, you broke me forever.

And I am trying to forgive you. After all, what’s the point of all this bitterness and rage when you’re dead as a doornail and I will never “make you pay”

But it’s really hard. I am painfully aware that there is a massive crack down the middle of my soul, and it leads right to you, Larry Donald Bertrand.

Guess you got away with it.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.