This, too, will pass

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My brother is one of those people who like to have some sort of background sound on 24/7, and to that extent, the modern age of iPods and streamed tv works for him. He pops his personal playlist into his computer and lets it run all day and night in his room. He surfs the tv channels to find something non-offensive to both of us (usually Comedy Central) to run a continual stream of sound in the living room. But one must always prepare for the worst to happen, and for my brother (and myself, since I’m the one stuck in the apartment), that means keeping the tv remote close in case re-runs of Melissa and Joey come on (or goddess forbid, Tosh).

Feels like I’m prepping for the worst quite often lately. My mind has begun contemplating the idea that this is it, my hearing will not improve and I will endure with only half my hearing for the rest of my life. I’m considering tackling the Big Clean in the apartment in case everything with immigration goes wrong and we’re asked to leave. And as always, I circle the drain of life vs. death: what’s the point? How much longer must I suffer this existence?

Been watching tv, trying to distract myself from my ongoing hearing problem and associated dizziness. Don’t know if it’s the best thing for me, but I still don’t trust myself with more than walking down the hall or short jaunts through easy passages – still staggering a bit from dizziness. Every morning I hope to hear more than that buzz in my left ear. Every morning I’m disappointed. Crap is flowing out of me; it could be my brains, now liquified from too much self-contemplation. Find I don’t care much. I can’t care much; I’m in overload. But my tv watching exposed me to an episode that discussed ‘dreamers’ and ‘losers’, and made special mention of ‘you don’t want to turn into a 50 year old dreamer who has nothing and has to sleep on someone’s sofa’.

Ouch.

Thanks for that. Thanks for the confirmation that yes, even in liberal Hollywood prejudice is alive, well and very active. Thanks for the social diss. Most of all, thank you for putting it all in perspective: my life, my work, and myself are nothing in your world.

So why do you keep trying to tell me suicide isn’t a good option? Why do you fight me so hard when I mention I have no reason to live? Why do you prevent me an easy option, with people I care around me, where I could just close my eyes and go to sleep peacefully? Why do you continue to force me to endure something I find tortuous?

Why, when I point out this hypocrisy, do you ignore it all and blame me for what I see as truth?

Find myself falling back on an old habit: rocking. Rocking in my seat, rubbing my hands over my pants. Again, and still. Every single pair of sweatpants I have in my possession has the same marks: pulled up fabric knots over the thigh area, where I rub and rub and rub in a useless effort to calm myself (it’s also why I have to replace my sweatpants at such a fast rate; I ruin the way they look within 10 days of buying them). Rubbing my pants is my adult version of rocking. A physical tic I can get away with in grown up company. But in private, I do what I have always done: I rock myself. Back and forth. The rhythm is automatic. It is also something I do unconsciously; I catch myself at it, like coming out of a trance. Geez, I’m rocking again. I don’t think about it. I just do it.

Tears come easily. My mind wanders at will, and I often have to drag it back to whatever is in front of me. Missing large chunks of tv episodes that way. Sometimes I’m aware of only the start of a show. Then next thing I know, I’m hearing the end credits. Conversely, I’ve been able to lose myself for hours in research on legal contracts for my brother – a mind boggling language that demands high levels of concentration. It’s like getting through a maze. I find myself getting lost in side arguments and ideas, rather than concentrating on the main problem. And although my bro is very thankful for any help I can give him on this, I can’t say I feel like I’m making much progress. But it does pass the time.

Nothing is moving fast enough. Everything drags, takes too long. What’s taking so long?!? The days, the nights, the waiting to hear from this person or that, my heath, the dizziness – a week is packed into every day, a month into every week, a year into every month – and yet somehow time flies past me, too: here it is, Saturday again, another week down the fucking drain with little to nothing to show for it.

Side note on smoking: been restricting myself a lot. Four is my top number.

Wish I’d do the same with food; feels like I’ve been gaining weight again. Pudgy. Everything is slack from lack of exercise.

Hang on. When it comes down to it, that’s the only thing left. Hang on. I have great moments of clarity, usually when I’m writing to a friend. It’s not that I don’t mean to share myself with them. Not at all. I do worry about overloading them because I’m well aware I’m in the middle of some sort of episode. It’s outside the norm of my behavior. So I say I’m not bad (which I’m not; at least, not at that exact moment), and continue to act out less than what I’m inclined to. Is that causing this weirdness in me? My attempts to remain calm?

Breathe. This, too, will pass.

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2 thoughts on “This, too, will pass

  1. I can relate to that–being in the midst of an episode (as you call it) and yet telling others I’m “not bad” and kind of holding back about what it’s truly like. But during my most recent episode, which I tend to characterize as “staying in bed for the month of January,” I did tell a few people about my suicidal thoughts. It’s almost like I couldn’t stand to hold it in anymore. To my surprise, they were very kind and understanding in their responses. It’s not as though they could do anything, but even having one person who could stand to hear it was helpful.

    Other than that, you are right. All you can do is hang on. But it’s worth hanging on, because the only true thing about life is that everything changes.

    Liked by 1 person

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