Nothing Says

I've been blogging for well over four years and from the very first day, I've experienced what I've come to call "deletion ideation"- the powerful, unsought urge to erase my entire blog. Sometimes there is a "reason", sometimes not, but it is a recurring pattern. There was a period when I was creating new blogs almost weekly and deleting them before I became attached to them...a lot of this activity coincided with periods of prolonged boredom and isolation at the workplace, a problem that I'm currently experiencing in a profound and distressing way.

A great many friends and relatives have either recently lost their long-time jobs or have found themselves in tenuous positions, waiting day-to-day to see if they are among the latest wave of lay-offs and it makes me wonder how much longer I will have my job- after all, most days I have absolutely no work to do.
None.
When I am given an assignment, I finish it as soon as possible because that is my habit. I don't know how to drag work out so that it fills what would otherwise be empty time- that is what blog is for. I can drag the hell out of blog. Were it not for blog, I would probably be very, very good at Minesweeper right now...I would also have considerably fewer friends and my life would be poorer for that.

So why the urge to quit? I don't know.

Part of it, I think , is guilt. Sometimes I feel that I am a "bad blogger" because I don't visit or leave comments as often as I feel I should. I often visit blogs where others have left long, multi-paragraph comments and the best I can manage is a weak "hello" or "that's cool"...blog is a reciprocal thing and sometimes I feel as if I can't give back enough to warrant asking anyone else to care...but when I hear others express similar sentiments, my first instinct is to tell them not to worry so much, it is what it is and no one should "keep score" or feel virtually obligated.
Hypocritical? Bass ackwards?
Sure. It's part of the human condition.

There's another factor and that is commitment. My childhood was nomadic, to put it mildly, and I was often keenly aware that I was an unwanted, burdensome thing, pawned off on the grandparents or left to the care of schoolmate's families...in retrospect, the time I spent with my friend's families -one black, the other Jewish- provided some of the most important formative lessons on tolerance and humanity that a child could have, something that it's taken a lifetime of adulthood to even begin to appreciate.

On the other hand, those years of uncertainty have made me leery of forming attachments to people and places because I know that those bonds can be shattered at any moment , for any or for no cause, and experience informs me that I have a difficult time "letting go" of those attachments. If I invest a penny, I''ll usually invest a pound- as a result, when the market crashes, a Great Depression is likely to follow. I have been depressed before and it is no way to live...but it's very difficult to get out of. At times- when I had insurance- my doctor tried treating me with different anti-depressants (the kind that take a week or longer to work) and those pills just made it much, much worse, leading my doctor to conclude that my depressive periods aren't chemical in nature, that they are situational, usually tied to some sort of loss- the death of a loved one, a lost job, a broken heart- sometimes, I have thought I would be better off if I lived in total isolation from the world and it's occupants- I mean, if I don't have anything to lose, then perhaps I won't become depressed, right?

Wrong.

That's the kind of thinking that made me drink myself to death. I still have those thoughts, but I recognize them for what they are- the voices of Depression and Addiction. They have nothing at all to offer me, yet they make compelling arguments and at times it's difficult to resist them, but I know I must. It is my responsibility to deny those voices the foothold that they seek. My survival hinges on it.

That doesn't mean that I can't look for help, even though it's not in my nature to do so...I recently borrowed money from my Twin so that I could be reunited with a very special friend that I met right here in this virtual space. Even with a full-time and a few part-time jobs, I can't afford the lifestyle I used to have - who can?- but I can't afford to shut myself off or give in to the fear of what might be. Chances must be taken. Thoughts must be shared. If there is pain, so be it. It's part of life, pain. It's when one goes numb that one needs to worry, but it's hard to worry if one is numb- it's the vicious circular trajectory of Addiction and it works it's insidious words into the most sober of moods, how easy it would be to be free of these thoughts, it whispers to me, just one drink and you can delete everything forever. Isn't that what you want?

No. That isn't what I want at all. I want to spend my days sharing words and music with as many friends and strangers as possible and my nights making love with someone I deeply care about.
I can't do those things in a vacuum. Sitting and staring idly into space might seem harmless when done for a few relaxing moments, but when it becomes the default emotional state, something is wrong. It might not be as drastic or as rapid as say, drinking a fifth of vodka per day, but it is just as lethal; a slow death caused by not living.

I'm not having any part of that. I quit drinking on my own terms, I didn't follow a program or any specific advice, I did it for myself and by myself. It took time to adjust-still adjusting, in fact- but once I felt free, I started finding other things, new and old, to replace the all-encompassing void that I left behind.

That void is still there, it sometimes slips it's way into my mind even without alcohol or pills, it tells me to do things like delete your blog or quit your radio show or don't take a chance on another human ...it knows that if I give in to those suggestions, then sooner or later I will have nothing left to lose and I will have no reason to preserve myself. I'll drink-and die- and those evil little voices will have won.

I'm not giving them that satisfaction. If I have to listen to voices in my head, I will choose to listen to the ones that tell me to keep trying, keep plugging even if it does hurt- especially if it does hurt. You can't crawl out of a briar patch without getting cut and crawling out from underneath the bottle is more like sliding naked over twenty miles of concertina wire and broken glass- but it's infinitely better than Depression.

When-if- I quit blogging , or radio, or music, it will be on my terms, for my reasons. It won't be because a mean little voice tells me to. Life is already too short and I've worked too hard to throw it all away over nothing.

And that's what the nagging, whining voice of Addiction is: Nothing.

Things Could Always Be Worse

That isn't my truck in that pic but I know the feeling.

I recently had a terrifying close call. Like many such incidents, my brush with disaster felt as if it were happening in slow motion; I suppose that's appropriate in my case since it lasted almost two weeks.
I was depressed. Seriously depressed.

For me, depression is like driving over a cliff and having a fortnight to dwell on the consequences of landing on the bottom. I take ten seconds of pure free-fall terror and stretch it out into a two-week supply of free-floating anxiety...it's also a good time to hurt someone's feelings- it doesn't have to be my fault, I just have to feel bad about doing it- the guilt keeps my self-esteem at bay. Self-esteem is the enemy of depression.
If you want to be depressed, it helps to hate yourself. But not enough to change.

At first I thought I was merely lonely, so I broke two of my own rules:

-Never sleep with anyone crazier than me.
-Never sleep with a drunk.

I thought it would help- it had been a while. A long while. But it only made things worse- suddenly I was faced with the consequences of being involved with a self-destructive alcoholic woman with a fondness for theatrics and abuse.Again.

So I chickened out. I gave an ultimatum of sorts: stop drinking or stop seeing me.
I have been on the receiving end of that decree before, so I was certain of the outcome- she chose the booze, just like I always did.
And I felt like a loser and an asshole, familiar territory for me, albeit from the other side of this discussion.

Karma, it is. I ruined a few good things because I was drunk...years later, the roles have been reversed and not for the first time, but this time felt different; I was becoming tempted to return to a world I can no longer survive and that temptation was unnerving. I felt the urge to drink again, the first time in nearly three years. I know better than to have any serious involvement with a practicing alcoholic.

So I withdrew. I felt like shutting down. I couldn't get anything done...watching TV was too complicated. Writing?
I have a lot of draft.
I read toothpaste.
I put comic books in stacks and moved them from box to box without rhyme or reason.
I sorted guitar cables by length and then tossed them willy-nilly and tangled as swept webs, into a milkcrate, then 'hid' the crate behind two more just like it.
My radio show last week sucked. My friends said I sounded "shaky". Polite, they were.

But this weekend was better. I had two shows Saturday and they were a blast.
Sunday, I ate an entire gift-box of chocolate peanut turtles for breakfast and I didn't feel so good afterward, but that was OK because I got to keep re-living the delicious chocolaty turtle goodness in my mind, which did a good job of making me forget what was happening in my stomach.

Monday, the agency finally called with a job, a good thing because I am officially broke and have no income. Until now.

I am a now a file clerk at a big company that designs stuff. Today was my first day...my new boss apologized because there wasn't any work. He said most days there wouldn't be much to do, but I'd soon have computer access, so I could read CNN, play solitaire, search for jobs or whatever...huh?

At first, I thought he meant that this job is a lot more temporary than I thought- but it's indefinite, a month or two at least, probably more- but he was saying it's OK to slack off...I'll be alone in a giant-ass file room most of the time and a great deal of the work is just making PDFs out of Word docs, so I can have a radio if I want...and there is a coffee station in nearly every nook and cranny of the office labyrinth...outdoor picnic area, nice kitchen, friendly people, bookshelves of 'honor libraries' in the break rooms...I could like it there. .
Plus, I blog a lot more when I have a job.

Well, I'd better call the Twin and tell him the good news. He's probably expecting me to call for money...ha! Sad, but true.
I wish I could tell my Dad, but he's drinking and I know better than to get involved with drunks, even if I do love them.

A Musing

I am appalled at the lack of progress I have made over the last 365+ days. I sat down with the intent to do some sort of "reflections" post; after reflecting, I have decided that "looking-back" falls under the category of "why bother?"

After all, very little has changed in my life since 2006:

A year ago, I was unemployed, destitute and heartbroken. I had quit my steady job, lured away by the promise of greener pastures- after crossing the stile, I found myself hip-deep in bullshit. Three days later I was unemployed.

I had also lost my Muse. My Muse was a female blogger, a fellow refugee from Gull Valley and someone with whom I felt an uncanny kinship- 'kismet' she called it.
It felt magical, she stoked my creative fires- I dedicated entire broadcasts to her- I even changed my Blogger template and set up a music site- serious stuff for a typically results-free slacker such as myself.

All for naught - it backfired actually, the music was the deal-breaker- and it was all to end in tears shortly before Christmas, 2006.

My Sunday morning show fell on Christmas Eve and I had planned to play songs by my Muse- I often played songs for her and sometimes she'd be listening on-line from her distant time zone...on X-mas Eve I was going to play songs composed and performed by her!

How many men get to give their sweethearts airplay for Christmas?

I don't know the answer to that question- only that it is one fewer than I had hoped. I got my "Dear John" the day before the show.

I played her elegant music anyway...it was a transcendent moment of beauty, longing and sorrow; alone in the booth with the lingering notes of my Muse's songs fading, falling...fading, falling...falling and gone...this, I thought at the time, is a feeling that I will one day inflict on a character in a novel that I have not yet written. Poor bastard, he.

I went home and took down all the blog art and images I had posted for the Muse. I deleted my entire music site- it was my songs that drove her away- I erased our emails, scrubbed her files and came very, very close to quitting blog altogether, the infamous Beta Blogger transition wasn't helping my mood...somehow, another blogger saw these actions and decided that I was making a public suicide announcement- he emailed my blogroll (but not me) to let them know about my "sinister plan"...according to him, I was going to kill myself on-air during my New Year's Eve show.

I found out about my own devious plot via an email from someone that I scarcely knew at the time- someone who had taken the time to actually read the words on my blog, specifically the words that said: " suicide is not something that I would do".

Unlike my unwanted meddler, my new pal understood that adding "not" to a sentence significantly changes the meaning of the sentence...nonetheless, they wanted to check up on me- they'd gotten a weird email concerning my nefarious radio offing and just wanted to make sure I was alright- I wasn't exactly alright, but I wasn't swallowing hemlock either; still, I'm glad they asked...

OK. I had to email my accuser...look, you are mistaken, I said. I hadn't planned on blogging it, but my heart is really fucked-up now...I am not, however, going to kill myself. Sorry for the mistake, but I plan on living. Yadda yadda...

He wrote back , calling me a liar. He claimed to have saved screenshots of my blog and said he had shared them with a team of highly-trained psychiatric professionals, who all agreed that I was a dangerous sociopath who should be stopped before I hurt myself...huh? Say what?

Dude, what sort of person has the time to save screenshots of other people's blogs and also has access to a team of "highly-trained psychiatrists "?
An inpatient at a private asylum would have time and access...just sayin'.

Anyway, this bullshit webdrama ruined the blogging part of that holiday, but it did serve to introduce me to one of my best blogpals ever, so the story actually had a happy ending.
Other good things followed:

-Shortly after the New Year, my old boss called and asked me if I'd come back to work- hell, yes! Having an income changed everything...I went back to the Firm.

-Before long, I'd found a new Muse. This one was from the Real North and she was certainly my True Heart...our brief friendship was one of the happiest moments of my sober life...this woman wrote lovingly heartfelt posts about obscure guitar FX and little-known but true Rawk legends...I was smitten. Again, endless hours on the phone seemed to indicate a longer future of some sort. She liked my CD. She was perfect.

"Come to me", I finally asked her. She said yes without hesitation.

At first.

When it came time to plan the trip,' yes' became: " Legal trouble...I can't get a passport. Can't come to the States."

At this time the media was widely reporting that it was taking Americans a very long time to obtain passports, so I decided I'd better get my application in post-haste...I was told to expect a wait of several months.
My passport arrived 10 days after I applied. Yowzah!

I called my New Muse: "Woo hoo! I'm on my way to see you!"

"You can't come here", she said.

"Hah! It arrived! I have a passport now. "

"I can't see you. "

Then she told me that she was angry at everything and everyone -except me- that she loved me, but I had to stay away. Forever.
Then she vanished. I don't imagine that I'll ever know what happened.
I hate not knowing.

A few months later I got laid-off from my job and haven't been able to find steady work since then. Another Christmas here with no job, no money and no Muse...but also no booze and no psycho-stalkers...it could be worse.

Several days ago my old boss called me- he stands to get a new job at a different law office and wanted to know if I'd join his staff if he should happen to get the job- hell, yeah! I hope he gets it.

Having an income would change everything- including deja vu.

So perhaps next year I will have my old job back, only at a new firm.

Perhaps a new Muse as well... I admit that I still carry torches, but I'm surrounded by lights...so if I decide to "snuff it", please know that I'm not talking about my life, I'm talking about my lights. There are many, many lights but I only need one.

Not that I dislike lights- far from it. I love lights and the shadows that come with them, but my Muse bulb is dark and it *ringles* when I shake it...it needs changing.
I need changing.

But not as much as I thought- after all, I did make it through last year without drinking (which would have been suicide)- and this year isn't nearly as bad as last year.
Not even close.
I was with someone who'd been drinking heavily the other night and just their smell was enough to make me feel ill...wow, I thought as I drove them home, this is how I used to smell every day.

Every God-damned day. Until it killed me.

I haven't touched a drop of booze since September 6, 2005. I had forgotten the exact date, but the collections agencies have been very helpful with sending dated reminders to me...09/06/05.

This morning I walked down the beer aisle and saw people stocking up...beer for the games, beer for their parties, beer to blot out whatever it is that needs blotting out...I saw these 10 AM brew-buyers and I wasn't envious of them. They looked sad.

Is that how I used to appear? I know the answer to that question.

Today I bought cat food, cilantro, potatoes and rice; then I went home and drank coffee. More coffee than any human ever should consume; still, it was just coffee.

Tomorrow I plan on making homemade stuffing with rosemary, almonds and cranberries; real mashed taters; pork-less beans and some sort of messy baked vegetable casserole, all of which I will take home with me on X-Mas Day in lieu of gifts, gifts being in short supply this year.

I have to be a bit careful with the ingredients because of my Grandmother's health- she would eat a deep-fried salt block if you put it on her plate, not because she's senile or stupid
(she's not) , it's just a Southern thing...we Southerners like our deep-fried salt blocks, preferably served with a saline-based gravy solution on top and half of a pie for dessert. I can't eat like that any longer- two slices of pie is all I can manage.

In the last 27 months I have had zero alcohol and consumed fewer than eight slices of pie; I have lost 50 pounds of fat and lowered all of my blood numbers into the "green" range...and to think that I started this post by lamenting my lack of progress. Idiot, I am.

I should change the opening sentence of this post, but I'm not going to. I've come a long way, but I am still making mistakes and that incorrect opening sentence is going to remind me of that fact.
When I achieve a state of personal perfection, I will come back and correct it. Don't stay up late waiting for that to happen.
Have a Merry Christmas instead.