Your cocktail sir,





2007-07-29 - 10:40 p.m.

I had the house to myself today. It was really nice.

I didnít get a lot done, but I got some projects finished, things installed, Netflix caught up on. And I was feeling pretty good.

And then the roommates got home in a burst of noise and I found myself annoyed at the intrusion to my solitude, to the yelling and the aggression, and the stupidity of youth. Not that Iím old by any means but Iím not young like they are. Itís amazing what 5 years does to separate people. Of course, itís a lot of me doing this, I am not blameless in this annoyance. In fact, itís my fault. There, Iíve owned it.

Iím angry and frustrated about my life at the moment. Suffocated and trapped by my own choices. Itís easy to take it out on my less than stellar roommates. Not that it makes me feel better, not that I do anything really horrible or explosive or cruel. I like to pretend that Iím evil, but deep down? I canít pull it off as a lifestyle choice. Only moments of witty cruelty and never any sheer malice. Maybe it takes time.

I am caught in a desire to be alone, to be away from everything, to be in a situation that is so new I can forget my fear and loathing. But I also recognize that I canít really do that, that the people in my life who care about me will need to be involved, will need to understand that Iím okay. I find that the most uncomfortable and anger inspiring of all. Everyone wants in. Iím not even in. I have days of horror or petty annoyances and I lock them up and suddenly Iím being asked to relive them, to talk about them so I feel better. And I donít usually feel better when I talk about my problems. Itís not dealing with them, itís not letting them go. I would argue with my therapist about such things. I felt more comfortable talking to a therapist because they where paid in the relationship, it was easily defined, it was something that I had control over. I canít do that with friends or relatives.

And the horrible, depressing, and mind dumbingly stupid thing about it? The cruelest of ironies, and not in an Alanis way? I do probably need to talk to someone, other than myself. To be clearer, to be sure of my intentions, to sound off on. I used to keep a diary for such things, the observations and things that got too me that I didnít feel I could tell anyone else about but needed to get off my chest. And it worked, for the longest time it worked. And then suddenly, it stopped. And when it stopped working, I stopped keeping it. I stopped carrying it around all the time. And eventually I stopped trying all together. Because thatís what it became. Trying. I even know when it dried up. My good friend died a silly pointless death. And I grieved. And I dealt with it. And when it was done, so was my keeping a diary. It wasnít really my first brush with unexpected death, but it was still painful. And I talked to my therapist about it. And I talked to the steno notebook about it. And in some way that wrenched me. It certainly changed me, and not just Hectorís death, but the unable to clear my mind and empty my soul.

I never intended to do that here, online where there was an audience. I just thought it would be a quick way to update people, to not worry about email addresses or anything. Just a place people could check up on me. And then I met some great people, and it was a good time. But itís time. To end this. I donít care about it. Itís not quite a chore, but it also does not serve the purpose I started it way back when. I wonít lock it, or take it down. But Iím also not going to renew it, or update it. Or think about. The personal diary is over, now we have blogs. Which took over. And thatís fine. Itís great. I donít really care about something enough to blog it. And that includes my current life. So, internet, itís not you. It really is me. And itís been fun.

previous - next

Zen and don't cry out loud - 2007-07-29

Zen and the stumbling rocks of fitness - 2007-07-19

- - 2007-07-11

Zen and fasting - 2007-06-20

Zen and hiccups - 2007-06-18

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