On the street

I was just propositioned by a hooker outside my own home.

Really. It was about eight and I had just pulled in the driveway after a very, very long day at work. I was tired, but I had groceries and was looking forward to a nice microwave dinner and some time with my cats. I saw a woman walking by the fence line on Huy. She started singing "Play that funky music white boy" and she had a decent voice, like maybe she'd sung in a gospel choir. I decided she had to be a happy spirit, and decided I might try singing something back to her, maybe a bit of Kodaly or Durufle.

So she said, "Recognize that song?" Well of course I did and as I walked over the motion detector on my garage lit me up. "She said, ooooh, a white man. I just love a white man. I could just suck their dicks."

Uh oh.

On the other hand, I was curious and someone this strange seemed like perfect material for a story. I decided to walk on over and talk to her. She was black, tall as I am with a long face and aquiline nose. She was wearing a low cut jean top with a bunch of buttons and jeans, and she was amply curved but overweight in the way of a high-starch diet. She was also a bit drunk. "I just had a run in with the cops."

"Why is that?"

"Because they know I'm a whore."

She tried to pull me close and reached down to feel my groin, but I wasn't having any of that. Even took out a tit and put it in my hands in a vain effort to get a rise. She was hustling me for money, and I was trying to hustle her for her story. And maybe try to see what got her into this state.

Frankly, I think it was alcoholism. Except that could be the cart pushing the horse. A dancer friend of mine tells about how many girls need liquor to cope with their work. Hooking is probably worse. She told me how she needed one good man to help her get cleaned up. I tried to get a story from her, she tried to get $20 for me. In the end I gave her enough for a meal. Whether or not that was a mistake remains to be seen. Personally, i think she takes her grain in a liquid form.

She doesn't want to be what she is. She said she'd do housekeeping work, that she was good at it, and gave me a different name once she realized I wasn't interested in sex. I think that much is true, that she'd like to change, and has found herself at the bottom without knowing how to get out.

I'm not entirely sure if I have any clue whatsoever about what's going on in my life anymore. I don't know if this is a cry for help, or a form of emotional release, or simply a downtrodden attitude that's developed in me over the years.

To sum up: In four months I'll turn 30 years old. Now, I'm quite aware that time is a human invention and is, for all intents and purposes, universally (in the grand scheme of all things) meaningless. I'm addicted to a variety of prescription drugs, and the more I consume them the more of an emotional wreck I become. I've had a string of failed relationships with members of both sexes over the past 10 years or so. They fail when the other person realizes that behind my apparently sweet disposition lies a deep, deep depression that isn't something they can help me with. Some don't want to try to help. Others don't care. Others still end up irking me for a variety of reasons, which inevitably leads me to make myself outwardly unhappy so they'll dump me, thus absolving me of responsibility. For a while, I patronized strip clubs now and then, but eventually I came to the realization that they serve only to make me even more unhappy with my life. The fact that I had to pay nearly nude girls to wriggle around on me and chat me up made me feel even worse. My mental decrepitude consistently leaves my apartment a veritable trash heap, completing the vicious circle that makes me feel terrible to begin with; I like things to be neat and orderly.

Suicidal ideation has been a part of my daily life since I was about 15 years old; it comes and goes in its strength and weakness, but it's always there. Right now it's at its strongest. I've been taking anti-depressants since 2002; first Paxil, then Remeron, then Zoloft, and now Lexapro, which, as my current frame of mind dictates, seems to be plateauing on me, so I'll probably get switched to another wonder drug next time I see my psychiatrist. I have considered checking myself into a mental institution, but based on all the horror stories I've heard and read about them, my intuition says that it'd do me more harm than good. (Adding to the fact that my own mother frequently self-commits herself; she's bipolar, and while her meds keep her antics relatively in check, she has frequent relapses.) I myself am not bipolar, nor do I have any major depressive disorders other than dysthymia, agoraphobia, gender dysphoria, attention deficit disorder, and moderate reclusiveness. No, my problems are much more tangible. My aforementioned love life and its constant failures; my drug abuse; my inability to stay focused while at work (which may soon lead to my forced resignation).

I have no idea how to correct any of these things, or at least put them into a somewhat more managable state.

I have a number of sharp street fighting knives at my disposal, a couple of katanas (should I feel the need to commit seppuku), as well as lethal doses of Gabitril, Adderall, and Lexapro, not to mention a fifth of green Chartreuse and a fifth of Trave Amaretto. (Lucky for me I'm an ardent anti-gun activist, and thus I don't (and will never) own a gun.) However, I've never before in my life engaged in self-harm, and I can't see myself doing it now. As my options for a better life continue to dwindle, I can only hope my attitude about self-harm stays as it is now (i.e., against). The few to whom I've delved these secrets, some have suggested that I turn to whatever their religion of choice is. My answer is unequivically no, as I am a devout (heh) nontheist; instead of restating my words to those people here, I'll just echo longwinter's sentiment that your God does not make me want to reconsider my thoughts about suicide.

I went through this quite strongly in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina¹, and spent several weeks after that storm crying my eyes out and composing suicide notes in my head. The post-traumatic stress disorder that came with it is still with me. On top of that, I have very few friends in this city or even this area of the country, I almost never go out (see agoraphobia), and despite all the vapid material possessions I own, I feel like I have nothing. The only thing keeping the last thread of a very long rope held taut is wondering what would become of Jena, my kitty, if I died. I really, honestly don't know what I'm doing with my life, or what I've done with it so far, or what's going to happen to it in the futur.

I don't fear death, not even my own. But my empathy for those I've known in my life who may or may not feel affected by my death has thus far prevented me from doing what I know is probably the most practical solution to my problems. I just wish, for once in my miserable life, that I knew what to do. What to do to better my life, make myself happier, and have a greater impact on those I surround myself with, even if they're separated from me by great distances.

My greatest desire is simply to know how to live, and to live according to what I know. Beyond that, it's fuck all for everything else until I work out this one apparently simple problem. If this daylog has affected you in any way, I ask that you please think positively of me and send me your thoughts laden with good juju, even if doing so amounts to prayer for you; I think that as an nontheist (which I'm) or as a theist of any stripe, positive energy is positive energy, and I'm in dire need of some reserves.

If any of the preceeding has upset you, I apologize. If you read it as teen angst, please reread the second paragraph of this writeup, particularly the bit which says I'll soon be 30 years old.

Thank you.

And always remember: energy never dies, it just changes form.

And so the deed is done...

Finally...

After much soul searching and consternation, I've finally decided to throw caution to the wind and tender my resignation at my place of work. Twenty-five years of sitting in a cubicle environment are enough to drive most anybody over the edge. I sometimes feel as if I have become the color of light brown and I blend into my surroundings so well that camouflage isn't necessary. It's as if I've become as numb and unfeeling as the off-white plastic of my desktop.

I don't think anybody ever wants to be a Senior Business Systems Analyst when they grow up. There's really no glamor in it and when people ask me what it is I do and I tell them, they just shake their heads and still don't understand. Requirements gathering, analysis, documenting, testing and re-testing just don't seem to shine a light of interest in most peoples eyes.

Thank God that those in my profession don't have one of those conventions where people from all around the country get together and talk trade. The ensuing boredom would impede progress for the next decade or so.

I don't know how people fall into this line of work. I don't think it's a chosen profession or some type of mystical calling. They just happen to fall in that direction on their way to somewhere else and spiral headfirst into it. It looks like I've finally come out the other end.

It wasn't easy. It took a lot of looking in the mirror and truth be told, I probably could've kept this gig forever. But after the year I had last year, well, lets just say that there had to be something "more". I found myself at the proverbial crossroads and asking myself just what had I accomplished so far. I also found myself dreading the daily grind. I noticed it, my friends noticed it and most importantly of all, Anna noticed it. I couldn't keep coming up with answers to the question of "What's wrong Dad?" and I couldn't keep lying. It's not my style.

Now to answer the question about what it is that I'm going to do...

The answer is that I don't know.

I know that I'm going to take at least a month off from doing just about anything.

I know spring is just around the corner and the yard hasn't gone away and it needs some work. I know there's a park nearby with a track where Anna can bust out her roller blades in the evening and I can get some much needed exercise. I know there are some volunteer opportunities at some local charity organizations and hospitals that are always looking for some people. I know my golf clubs have been whispering to me from down in the basement telling me that they thought it was time to go out and play. I know that some rooms in the house need a new paint job and I know I have the time to do it. After that, I'll just play it by ear.

All in all, I probably have enough resources to last me close to a year if I budget myself wisely and nothing rears its ugly head. Lets hope that it doesn't.

Now I might finally be able to answer the question of just what it is I'm going to be when I grow up.

Wish me luck as I wander off into the void...

I feel better than I have in years.