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The Accountability Factor

I’m starting to journal again, obviously. The purpose was, ostensibly, to try to make sense of my own world, in a way that would somehow remove me from the immediacy of the goddamn endless swamp that my life seems like sometimes, post Death Race to the Emergency Room 2016. 
 
Then, the world started to lose its fucking mind.
 
Well, to be more specific – my country lost its mind, and started to shit itself all over the rest of the world.

I remember a time… is starting to be a phrase you see a lot on Twitter. Maybe on Facebook, too, but FUCK that place.  After the damage they helped to do to the election – again, FUCK that place. And word is that Zuckerberg has his sights set on 2020. You know what?  Fuck HIM too.  
 
Ok. Got that out of my system.
 
But I do remember a time – when Bush winning the election felt like an incomprehensible insult. When having him in office and telling us to go SHOPPING as a solution to 9/11 was –
 
Ok, I’m about to devolve into a Lewis-Black-esque spew of FUUUUUUUUCK again.
 
Where we are here? Now?
 
...
 
Years and years ago, pre-internet, I used to carry paper journals around all the time. Never without a book to read, and never without some place to record my thoughts or collect quotes or what have you. And there was some ok writing that came out of that, but in the main, page after page of those journals ended up devolving into a downward slant – “swirling” is what my friend Mannie called it – that tendency to focus on something negative and just follow it doggedly down and endless rabbit hole of FUUUUUUUUCK…
 
Yeah, I like that word a lot.
 
But the thing with those journals was, part of why they did that - dig themselves into depths of FUCK THIS SHIT - was the self-knowledge that no one would ever read them. Outside that one time when my ex – but that was a whole other thing…
 
It’s more likely than not that no one will read all this stuff either. Just because it’s on the internet doesn’t mean it’s actually ‘out there’ in the sense that I’ll have an audience.
 
But there’s that possibility.
And it’s what helps keep me, in a weird way, accountable.
 
There’s the slim-to-none but still possible possibility that someone out there – might stumble across this.
 
And because of that, I feel like I have to be interesting. 
I have to try to make sense out of all this.
I have to have something to say, besides just endlessly howling into the void.
Because someone out there just might – maybe – hear.

That's all I was able to do yesterday. Last night
This last week.
The last ten days.

Howl. Shriek. Cry.
A lot.

The world I live in right now – my country – has stopped being accountable. Even though it has the ear of the entire fucking world – my country has gone totally tone deaf. Our sense of responsibility for and to others has disappeared faster than an old-school vampire in direct sunlight.  
 
Yes, I know, this has been years in the making.
 
But ten days –
 
TEN FUCKING DAYS, people –
 
In ten days –
 
I can’t right now.  I just can’t even go into it.  It’s both simple and complex, and overall overwhelming.
 
Whoever runs across this little time capsule in the electronic ocean - if someone ever does - if the USA and by extension large chunks of the world aren’t just smoking rubble and an EMP hasn’t wiped out colossal swaths of the Earth's collective knowledge – the Library of Alexandria writ large –
 
Look it up.
 
U.S. History, Friday, January 20 to Saturday, January 29, 2017.
 
Then again, depending on what happens in the coming weeks; months - who knows who’ll be writing the history books.  
 
All I can say right now is that in the last 10 days, I’ve lost my country. 
 
My mind?  I left that behind long ago.  
I just never expected to see the world around me devolve as well.
 
I was saying something about how journaling was supposed to keep me from ‘swirling’.
 
Maybe tomorrow.
 
Maybe.
 
Laters, internets.
 
 Met with Heather twice, and it was really helpful.  for our next appointment she had stuff to do and so rescheduled for today. She was supposed to be here an hour ago.  Not responding to texts or voicemail. The organization she works for said they were going to get me a counselor. No call on that from them, either, and no response to voicemail as well.

Feeling really fucking abandoned.

Fuck this.

 
So, today was the variety of interesting that is good, rather than Ye Olde Chinese Curse variety. Exhausting, but that was both due to the length of time today's tasks took and having taken Trazadone last night, which leaves me feeling fucking wiped out so completely the next day that it's pretty much not worth it as a sleep aid, since the point of sleep is rest, but - anyway...

Today was supposed to be an assessment/intake appointment for counseling, and it ended up being not the 1 hour session I expected with just a counselor, but a 4 hour 3-way with a counselor, then another counselor, and then a - I can't remember her title but it was a new variant of "case manager," the latter of which I have decided is one of the most awesome people, partly because of her personality (which says something as I don't get a long with most females), and partly because her job is to help a person search for resources, establish a baseline for pretty much all areas of your life in terms of both coping and daily living skills, and she is able to not just see people in an office, but also go anywhere at all in the city to meet with people as best suits them. In a city where there is FUCK ALL in the way of transportation if you don't have a car (seriously - the supposed 'transit system' here goes well beyond joke and way into insulting), this is a service that to me seems like an absolute godsend.  Currently I still have my car, but without a steady income coming in (see: fired CHRISTMAS FUCKING EVE, by a boss who takes the appellation of 'dickhead' to new and transcendent heights) - life is feeling not just precarious, but more like pre-fucking-inescapable-sinkhole.  It's amazing how people will listen to you when you tell them that you have a suicide plan in place, not because you necessarily *want* to die, but are about to be in a position where that seems like the best of all possible options (see also: if my healthcare goes away I only have months to live anyway, yadda yadda).

Anyway, not-case-manager Heather is coming to my house tomorrow morning to get an idea of the space I live in (and how the broom closet dimensions are one of the challenges that I'm having trouble with), and then we'll go to a cafe to continue working on figuring out what resources to pursue - one of which will be getting help applying for disability, something that I HATE the idea of doing, but have finally had to accept is a necessity.  Also, shorter term options, since getting denied - and denied - and denied - is not only common, but something that one should not only expect, but assume and plan contingencies for.  

These are the kinds of things that I find easier to help *other* people with, but when it comes to doing them on my own, for myself - I dunno.  It's like a frosted Lucite wall descends between me and the intended tasks, and I can vaguely make out the outlines, but can neither fully grasp nor connect with them.  Vapor lock or somesuch. This isn't something I have the luxury of not being able to not deal with, so - it's one of the areas I am in great need of assistance with, and is EXACTLY what Heather is all about. After today, again, I'm wiped out - but I feel more hopeful than I have in, oh, about 9 months or more. Basically, pre-hospital.  So.  We're also going to look at formulating a game plan to help me finish my incompletes for school, and maybe see if there's some way I can get funding for the A$$L0AD of expensive testing to get my teaching license. Although another thing I have to accept is that I'll never be able to teach full-time - I just don't have the physical constitution necessary for it anymore - if I can teach part-time, and do some other stuff for $$ part-time (theatre, getting the Etsy store up and running, etc.), in theory I should be able to get back to the usual things-are-tight-but-manageable space again. Poor, I'm used to.  On the  brink of homelessness - not so much.

So.  That was my day. I wanted to do the bargain movie thing tonight but I'm still feeling hung-over from that AWFUL medication last night, so I think I'm going to try to do a little cleaning - I think I may have 20-30 minutes in me before all the muscles in my lower/mid back trying to strangle my spine AND rip their way right out of my body - and then just - blargh. Watch reruns of Sherlock I think.

Seriously.  I am fucking DONE with today.

In a good way for a change.

Which is pretty damn cool.

 
Note: Cross-post from LJ. May try to maintain both spaces. Under consideration.


I'm going to go on record as saying 2016 was the worst year of my life.

So far.

I'm coming back to longform writing now. Not just to bitch and moan, because that's just boring. Seriously. But I gave up on Facebook before the election, and even Twitter is just... depressing.  Even though a ton of my favorite authors are on there - they're smart and observant, and given the shape the world is in today, a lot of *their* observations and most of their links - because even more so than Facebook, Twitter is basically just a repository for rotating links - are depressing as fuck.  Don't even get me started on William Gibson.  Just don't. Suffice it to say we're basically living in the distillation of all his dystopian fantasies, just without as much of the cool tech.

But anyway.

One of the side effects of my new exciting Shittier Living through Disease and Chemistry is memory loss (See: Lupus Fog), and I'm officially entering last half of "Flowers for Algernon," so if I don't write down what's left, soon it's going to be - *poof*

gone

So.

In my teens, I carried a paper journal around with me everywhere I went. Now, even that is something I forget to do, which sucks, but there it is. Part of my goal now - I don't do New Years resolutions; this goal is just coincidental - is to spend an hour a day writing. Not necessarily about myself - I may finally get the fiction thing going, or possibly write about my grandmother, because anytime I've described her life, I've almost without exception been asked, "are you going to put that in a book? Because I'd totally read that" -

So, yeah.
If I can knuckle down and be the discplined person I'm basically going to have to be to survive - assuming the Affordable Care Act doesn't actually get repealed, in which case I will be dead in roughly 3-6 months, but that's another story, hooray -

So - from now on, words should  be regularly appearing in this space.

So Mote It Be, yadda yadda and stuff.

Cheers, DW / LJ Void.
To be the one "who loves too much" is not romantic. Or tragic. Or tragically romantic.

It is hard though. To let go of something, even though it has, or is about to become, toxic. Especially if the reasons you love - too much - are entangled with the things that are what made it so right to begin with.

I don't know if he will remember - or if I ever told him in words - the reasons why I loved him. For the attention, certainly. For the feeling of being wanted, of course.

Loving too much - not wanting to let someone go, even when you know that you are no longer good for them - is difficult to accept when the reasons you love them have nothing to do with you. They are what that person is about - who they are - all the things that make them who they are, outside and apart from the connection made by a relationship.

I don't know if he knew that. About the reasons it was so hard to let go.

Driving through the snow and seeing the man in the business suit, holding up a sign asking for work. A man dressed, not for the cold and horrible weather - but for an interview. You see him as we drive past, and I see you go silent and your face stiffen.  I see that you are angry that this is something that happens to a good person. Someone who has pride, and yet is putting themself out there to get help. If someone, anyone will stop. And cars stream by, oblivious.

You turn around, grim determination. Go to the drugstore. Buy the warmest hat they have, and gloves ,and an think an umbrella. You take these to the man and give them to him, along with your business card. You give him, not just a moment of your time and some small gesture of pity - you give him respect. You give him a chance that he may or may not pursue - but that shows him that someone is willing to take a chance on him. You show him that you see him as a human being, who needs help, but who is more than just his need.

I loved - love - you for that.

The man outside another drug store. crumpled on the ground, not so much asking for anything, perhaps having moved past the point of feeling that help is possible. Feeling that there is no help to give; no one who sees him as worth helping. You go in, and buy nuts, granola bars, a packaged sandhich. Gloves. You take these outside and give them, and as you turn away I see that you are angry, because this shouldn't happen to anyone. People should never be left alone, left behind, feeling that they are nothing more than garbage. Feeling anger that there's so little that just one person can do, but must try, anyway.

I love you. I still miss being there to see who you are in these moments.

Anger at people who bicker and trade platitudes and argue semantics rather than taking action. We find a women's shelter, read their webpage, and find the list of things they need to help battered, abused women, who have had their lives and freedoms taken away from them, come to a space of healing. Gather back their life. We go to thrift stores to find clothes - nice clothes, suitable for a job interview - what they need most is the ability and the means to become self-sufficient again. We buy toiletries - shampoo and conditioner, a curling iron. And children's clothes, for the children who are now their responsibility alone, to make safe, and build a new life for.

Your frustration so often drives you into acts of compassion.

I love you for this. For so many things.

I love you for your convictions. Even those that meant we couldn't be together. For being true to them, and to yourself - I love you.

I think at times you are aware of these things. The things that you do, and what makes you someone who can't stand to stand by, where there is somrthing that really can be done.

Small things, So much more than small.

Giving assistance, sometimes grudgingly, because sometimes to give is to be taken advantage of. You are generous, but you are also intolerant of people who don't meet assistance with action of their own. You've been disappinted by people who take and take and take and never use what they're given in the way that will make their lives better.

And yet you still give. And you allow yourself those moments of surprised satisfaction that an act of compassion - an effort intended to help someone learn how to help themselves - actually pays off. I think you feel the surprise, but perhaps rarely process the part you played in bringing out that success.

I love you for being the one who helps, truly expecting nothing in return. Only that someone can recieve, and match that help to help themselves.

There are many other things. More reaons than I can list right now, because they are also true, but unrelated, connected only in that they are reasons why I still love you.

I hope someone tells you about who you are, in those moments when you forget. I hope you are with people who know you well enough to see your personal sinkholes, and hold out the branch that you can grasp to bring yourself up, and back to you agian.

I love you for those times you fall down, because you get back up again. I love you for your anger, because in this way, it comes from understanding. From wanting for things to change to be better.

I hope someone tells you these things about you. I hope you hear them often.

I love you too much for them.

And I make no apologies for that.

I miss who you are,

I miss all of you.

I miss you.

Miss you.

Nov. 8th, 2015

Note to Self:

Do something artistic, every day, no matter how small or crap it may be,

Every
fucking
day.

"Life is pain, Highness. Anyone who says otherwise is selling something."

So top yourself or STFU and stop whining already.

Jesus.
The only thing keeping me alive at present is the fact that I don't have anything to make myself otherwise, and my cats, and the fact that I'd be stiffing my vet for the over 2 grand in bills that I just wracked up repairing one cat. Yeah, no, and I'm not exaggerating. Melodramatic, sure. But entirely serious. I kid you fucking not.

For at least the last 3 years I've done nothing that's made me feel like I'm worth a fucking crap. Aside from a few high-fives from something I've occasionally not sucked at entirely, all I've managed to do is get by or fail. I've always been insecure, sure, and I've always done better with praise than without - but in general I've at least been able to point to one thing or another and say, "well at least I'm good at THAT."

I've run out of things to say that about.

I am so fucking tired of fucking failure.

I am so fucking tired.

Insert Meaning Here

It feels like so long since I lived like I felt that life had any real meaning.

I haven't been a slob since probably 6th grade, when I somehow learned that there was something useful about being able to find stuff when I needed it. And when I finally lived on my own, I always kept my home, if not sparkling clean, at the very least tidy. The only things that sometimes occupied what could be considered a space of disarray would have been some art or craft project I was working on. Something that would be there for a while, because it would be my form of nightly meditation: the clay, or the carving tools; sandpaper; paint; sometimes fabric or beads or the weird homemade sculpting compound that became my medium of choice -

My house, particularly in the last few months - is basically squalid. I hardly ever cook, and yet the sink is constantly full of dishes. I haven't been able to sit on the sofa for months, because it's always covered in paperwork and notebooks that should be collated and organized - and unopened mail, bills of course -

Nothing feels like it matters.

Everyday, I feel like I don't do anything right. I work for, rather than with, my mentor teacher, and after weeks of telling me how perfectly smarvelous her last few student teachers were - she's basically given up on me. I'm only supposed to be spending 5 hours a week at the school - I'm spendning an average of 20 hours a week there, and she still behaves as though that's not only what I'm obligated to do, but that I don't do enough, even then. There isn't a day that goes by where she doesn't indicate that something I've done wasn't the way it's supposed to be done. Every day is an exercise in just getting there. That's about it. Knowing I'm walking into a losing proposition, every single day.

And I'm PAYING for this. Not GETTING paid - I'm paying the university to make me feel like shit. This is what passes for "teacher education," apparently.

And Twister's at the vet. He's been there since Wednesday and will likely be there at least a week. His bladder was obstructed, which is a literal death sentence for boy kitties if not immediately diagnosed and treat with 48 hours, maximum. Crazy. My vet's been taking him home with her every night because their clinic doesn't have 24 hour care, and she's that dedicated. I helped her do a procedure today, because the clinic is closed on Sundays, he'd had her up until 3am kicking out his catheter but still needed additional flushing, which requires two sets of hands,etc. - and I went to get catheters and feeding tubes (they use them to run into the bladder for irrigation, and he's wiped out their supply because the catheters kept getting clogged with crystals, some of which looked like table salt, but others that were the size of fucking SEA SALT)  and then I helped with the irrigation and the flushing and holding a squalling ball of fur, fangs and rage as we had to unkink his IV in order to get the tranquilizers into him so that he could get him on anesthesia to get his catheter sewn back in.  And then off he goes with Dr. Flowers again. Not even sure when I'll be able to take hime home again.

I don't know. I just can't seem to get motivated, however hard I try. I think I'm trying to get failed out of grad school because it genuinely sucks so very hard.

I may have already succeeded.

I don't know what else to say.
It's windy as hell outside tonight, so of course there's the sound of that - the wind itself, scraping over the roofs and dragging leaves across the streets; kicking cans and collapsed boxes and whatever else it can drag to smash, clattering, against walls -

But there's also a lot of human traffic out there as well - it feels like more than usual for a weeknight. And they're making different sounds than usual, also - some talking to each other loudly, so as to be heard; cars making complicated manuevers, ostensibly to avoid flying debris -

If you put your mouth to the edge of an oil lantern chimney and blow across, that's the voice outisde my window right now.

It's the epitomy of "change" out there tonight.

Crazy.

Aaaaaaannnd -

Tonight's the kind of night that keeps dragging me back to theatre.

Because it is true, unequivocal magic.

Yesterday's barely competent cast made the train wreck of a script acutally work tonight. For the very first time, I didn't wince every few minutes or find myself feeling as lethargic as the actors looked, or silently curse the useless excuse of a director for rummaging through the Demeaning Stereotypes Handbook for every shitty, insulting cliche he could squeeze into 90 minutes -

Tonight the cast took the next to nothing they were given, and made it work. Overnight. What I saw tonight was literally a completely different show from last night.

It's not high art, but during notes I got to tell the cast - we all know this has been a challenging show to get up (....!!!), and there have been a lot of hiccups getting al the pieces to fit together (!!!!!) -

But tonight, you guys made it worth it.  All the time and effort and stress - this is why we do it.

Because it's fucking magic, man.