Professional Fuck-Up

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Creating and putting out into the world any kind of meaningful material is more difficult now than it ever was at age 20.

See, back then, I was awash in angst and I could take on any challenge given the single, powerful notion of youthful invincibility (thanks, mania) and an adequate supply of coffee.  Most of the things I accomplished at that age, I only pursued because I saw someone else doing it and figured I could do whatever it was being done just as well, if not better.  That’s why I started writing poetry as a teen, and ultimately why I started making video blogs (oh, vlogging) on YouTube as a young adult.

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A Haunting in Baltimore

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You know why you run?

You run because you need to get away.  You run because you need to escape the place you’ve found yourself in.  You run because you’re afraid.  You run because it’s what you know to do, what you have always done, and what you will continue to do.  You run in hopes to leave behind the things that will always, always catch up to you.

That’s why you ran away to Baltimore, right?  The city, with its bright lights and roadways outstretched like arms, was waiting to take you in and embrace you, so you could feel its rumble of a heartbeat as it held you close.   But the sense of security that the city gave you was accompanied by an understanding that the things you have run away from will always find their way back.

Consider The Hurricane, for example.

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Trigger.

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I realized after writing my last post that I needed a break from the emotional purge series. Constant focus on my negative traits brought my mood down greatly.  This exercise, identifying my “sins,” was meant to make me feel better.  The blog became a confessional.  But after the last entry, I only felt worse.

This next installment, the part 2 of my last post, is especially difficult for me to write because this is mostly about how badly May hurt me, and how I reacted in response.  It was the first time that someone had ever told me “I don’t love you,” and even now, it’s still difficult to think about.  It hurt to the core at the time, but the pain has since dulled.  I still remember what it felt like, though.  Like having a tooth pulled and feeling the cavity where the tooth once stood once it’s healed.

I don’t feel very renewed or restored after the last few days.  These things, the shitty acts I’ve committed against people, I need to talk about them in order to get them out of my system in hopes that I won’t be haunted by them again, or realistically, not haunted by them as much or as frequently.

The project started after I stopped daily consumption of drugs and alcohol and started taking my medications as prescribed.  After three weeks of not taking anything recreational, I ultimately feel better.  But when I write about some of this stuff, I feel nervous and ill at ease with myself and all I want to do is smoke a joint and make this feeling go away.  I need to learn how to not feel that way.

Let’s hope I learn soon.

On “Doing.”

See, I have this roommate.

We don’t talk very much, and oftentimes I’m intimidated by her (specifically, her intelligence).  I think she has a beautiful mind and she strikes me as the kind of person that can teach me a thing or two if I am open to learning.

At two in the morning on Sunday, after walking Captain Coping Skills (formerly The Polyamorous Neurotic) to his car (which is another story for another time), she made me tea and we chatted one-on-one for the first time since her return from her home country.  She asked me to explain the relationship between Captain Coping Skills and myself.  I told her that we were lovers; there wasn’t anything romantic happening between us.  I fancied a fuck and he was there, sometimes, when he wasn’t drinking himself into oblivion.

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Changing It Up.

I am the master of the narrative that is my life.

This is a common concept (“master of one’s destiny,” etc.), but it’s not a concept that I’ve fully embraced/lived by.  For a long time now (maybe years, if I’m honest), I’ve been a passive participant in my life.  I’ve even written about the topic and I’ve vowed to change the course my ship is sailing time and time again, to no avail.

Lack of consistency has brought me to this place:  I’m 30 and I live with my folks again, still working in an entry-level sales position, and for the first time acknowledging my lack of hobbies and passions, things that make me, me.

It’s unsettling.  A decade ago, I could identify myself with something outside of occupation.  I don’t think that’s the case now.  I don’t find myself interesting enough to take care of, if that makes sense.  I’m not an investment, I guess.

Well, it’s time to change thing, then.

After reading an e-mail the Bestie sent me a short while ago (a personal essay from one of her favorite writers), I’m inspired.  It’s a tingly feeling, rooted deeply in my solar plexus chakra, and it feels really good.  It feels hopeful.  I’m making a list of things I’m interested in, and one by one, I’ll explore these things.  It’s a start.  It’s a really good start.

In Good Company // “With A Little Help From My Friends”

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Today’s NaBloPoMo Prompt: Who do you like to be with when you’re feeling sad?

Well, there’s a lot of people that help me deal with a lot of different sadnesses.  Sadness can be multifaceted; sometimes you’re experiencing-loss-sad (mourning), or feeling-empty-sad (desolation), or without-meaning-or-direction-or-purpose-sad (hopelessness).  “Sad” as a descriptor is a catch-all, an umbrella term.

But for every kind of “sad,” there’s a person I would spend time with to cheer myself up.

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