The anointed day had finally arrived. I was all ready for Julian to drive me to the bank at 11 am so I could withdraw my cash and give Joe an additional $200 “on account” so I could charge the approximately $463 for my new CPU on his credit card and finally get my grand upgrade going.
But at 10:50 am, Julian knocked on my door to tell me that it was still snowing out and that the radio was telling everyone to stick to essential travel only and as eager as I am to get the upgrade ball rolling, I can’t very well argue it’s essential per se, and it certainly isn’t worth risking out necks by trying to drive in this crap, so I have been thwarted.
And being thwarted really thmarts.
Hopefully things will be less hazardous tomorrow because not only do I want to go to the bank but I need to go to Wound Care too.
If we can make it to Wound Care, we can make it to the bank after, as the Community Care Clinic where I get my Wound Care is a lot further away than my bank.
I honestly should switch banks to one that has Visa Debit so I can spend money online and have it come directly from my bank account and skip this whole buying a credit card every month business entirely.
In fact, at that point, all I would have to do is figure out Venmo so I could pay Joe the rent every month and I would never need to go the the bank again.
That sounds nice.
Speaking of money and Joe, this is going to be a bit of a lean month for me. Diverting $200 to my CPU purchase will put a bit of a strain on my finances and so I will have to forego my usual ordering in via Skip for possibly the entire month.
Oh well. One must suffer for one’s indulgences, or something like that.
I spend too much money ordering in anyhow. Might be good for me to learn to go without for a month. Might help me kick the habit so I can use that money on something more lasting – like more computer upgrades!
Or, ya know. Something more sensible. Like a new goddamned bed. One without spring poking up constantly trying to impale me.
Granted, I don’t need a new bed for that. I just need to clear all the crap off my existing bed so Joe and Julian can flip and turn the mattress for me.
But a brand new bed could make a huge difference in my life, if it helped me sleep better. And it had better, or I would return the damned thing.
I would not shell out that much dough just to have a bed that looks pretty.
Or maybe I should aim lower and get a new comforter. One that is guaranteed to be machine washable so that I don’t end up in the same situation, with a comforter that has not been washed in like a a decade, again.
According to Joe, dry cleaners don’t clean comforters, and they are not machine washable. So apparently, when these large, heavy, expensive items get dirty, people just throw them away and buy another one.
I have my doubts.
More after the break.
Trying to start
I think that somewhere inside me is a spark plug that stubbornly keeps trying to ignite my fuel mixture and get me going somewhere in life.
But it is doomed to fail because of the heavy, oppressive weight of my depression’s dark and evil regime killing any such spark of life with its freezing bulk and torturous stasis and phantom fears before said spark can come anywhere near starting something.
Because as badly as I want to get going, it is nothing compared to just how badly I am afraid to leave.
I am terrified of the real world. Frightened of growing up. For whatever reason, failure to launch types like myself are positive that the real world will destroy them and so our only survival strategy is to hide in our dysfunction as we turn our back on the real world.
And that makes healthy growth impossible. We are an ingrown cohort. When you can’t grow up, you grow in. And that means you end up all backed up and turned around and rootbound and hacking up a lung somewhere having lived a tragically short and pointless life all because your growth got caught in your throat.
My former supervisor, Blaine Skerry, was a perfect example. Great guy. Funny, smart, kind, and understanding. And wise, at least compared to me in my 20’s.
And he had a real job, unlike me most of my life.
But he never moved out of his parent’s house. Lived there long enough to inherit it from them when they died. Never had a girlfriend, never did anything with his free time except watch movies and play video games. Died alone.
He never made it out. That’s how I think of it these days : escape. Real escape, not the bullshit escape offered by all our distractions. Escape from the shadow of our own gravity wells into the real, true, living grown-up world.
The kind of escape that requires us to change who we are. And that means accepting that changing who we are does not mean death. On the contrary, it means life. It means choosing to live. It means letting go of who we are so that we might climb higher.
You can’t climb any higher if you’re still holding on to the rung you are on with both hands, after all. So that you can be “safe”.
But you’re not safe. The acid is burning through the ropes. The wolf is howling at the door. The house is on fire but you’re still too scared to jump.
And maybe you will jump before the flames consume you. But maybe not. Maybe you would rather die in a fire than leave what you know for some scary fall into God knows what out there in the dark.
Maybe a fatal known still looks better than a chaotic unknown to you.
I guess we’ll find out eventually. One way or another.
I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.