Hiatus

Seems I’ve taken a break from writing, setting it aside months ago because- I guess I wasn’t feeling the fire. Stopped posting on social media, stepped away from most human interaction, really. Is this “human interaction”? I guess so. In a passive way, it is. Social media, blog posts… Maybe any creative writing is some manner of passive interaction with the rest of humanity. I was thinking on- Well… I’ve been thinking on my shortcomings as a friend or whomever – on how I tackle friendships, relationships of any kind. I’ve always considered myself an introvert. For the most part. As a young child, I was more gregarious, enjoyed making connections more than is true of me, now. I value every one of my friends, acquaintances, family members. It’s just that- I came to enjoy a more “me”-centric existence very long ago. I’m thinking it began as I became a pre-teen. And can be pinpointed to a certain event in my life, a horrible one. Excuse me while I step out to grab my tea.

Arthritis has been kicking my ass. It’s become a job, moving across a room – changing body positions to do so, actually, like rising from bed or from being seated. Several areas are screaming for attention. Left knee, right hip, upper neck are worst. Had to make a visit to my favorite emergency room, yesterday morning, because I thought that knee was going septic, as the other had, just over a decade-and-a-half, ago. I almost lost that leg, then. I was fighting meningitis, potential limb loss… It’s anyone’s guess how the thing got infected. Truth is, I know exactly what happened. The rental unit I was in at the time had plumbing issues and raw sewage was backing up in my shower with each use and I was trying to shower and there I was, standing in liquid shit. Living in that part of Nevada at the time, speculation defaulted for some to a dirty needle, as so many in the community were and remain drug abusers. I never was, though. No needles, no weird insect bites. I was standing in sewage, each day. Always something with a rental I’ve rented, it seems – no matter where I lived. With that one, it was the sewage. And mice. With the one before it, the home’s electrical system was effed in half the house. More recently, while living in downtown Boise, it was bedbugs. I’ll be forever messed-up about the bedbug situation, there. Brought a few with me when I moved in with my sister Amy and her family, creating a new situation and that was a particularly nasty hell for us all. But I’ve got me tea, I’m back at the desk, here… So – where was I…

I was somewhere in my pre-teens, discussing interpersonal stuff. Lemme see if I can get myself back on track to where I was headed with it.

So, as I entered the double digits, I was struggling. On many levels. At hand, though, was me, coming to terms with having been raped by a bigger kid, a couple of years before. I guess I kind of- I dunno. Historically, I’ve said I accepted it as being something not about me but my attacker, who I’d decided, then, was the true victim. Over the years, however, introspection and therapy have questioned this stance, and truth be told, I wouldn’t have been on board with it at the beginning nor when what had happened actually started to seep into my mind and I felt- I felt like garbage. I felt like I was at fault. People sometimes even now like to color a victim as being somehow complicit in their whatever. “Well, you were dressed provocatively,” they often suggest to women who’ve been sexually assaulted. For me, questions later came to those I’d let in on my abuse as to how intensely I really fought back, fought off the assault. Once, a therapist introduced a supposition that, maybe, there hadn’t even been penetration. Which- Jesus Christ. How do you come up with something like that without- It pisses me off, this, whenever I let it into my head. Or, that classic, “Maybe you enjoyed it.” That one’s French chef’s kiss “magnifique”. Anyway, the pain and guilt of it, even as a little kid, eventually drove me from covering it up and hiding it away to actively looking for ways to end my life. Between the ages of eight and twelve, I slowly moved into an introverted mindset, accompanied by a notion that I no longer had dreams and fantasies about how I’d live my life as my age advanced. Almost overnight, I’d ceased caring about the future. Goals – any of it – they disappeared. I stopped interacting with friends. Started spending more time alone, started talking to myself. Taking my bike and going off to some secluded place, where it was just me and no one came to bother me, threaten me. Soon, this is when and where I’d start entertaining notions of suicide. Even at that young age, I- You know. It was fleeting. I always pulled myself away from the edge of abyss. Each time I did, though, I- I just became increasingly withdrawn. Introverted. I didn’t feel like I could explain myself to anyone, really. If I had, could they empathize. Sympathize, even?

As I approach sixty, I’ve- I just seem to be more- I’ve come to accept a lot about myself, things that even a few years ago might’ve brought about opinions on myself that differ considerably from the now. I’m okay with being a solitary individual. For the most part. I’m okay with being a bachelor, with doing my own thing. I’m okay with loved ones at arm’s length. I profess, now, that love is something I’ve overcome. Like making it through some kind of nasty infection. But then I see an old couple in the lobby at a doctor’s appointment, unaware that they’re sharing of themselves a great example of how two people can look after each other and well. I see this but the old couple – that classic old couple – who bickers in the clear, they’ve never been worthy of mention. I just don’t typically see it. And I’m left feeling down, wondering where my soulmate is. When it’s very likely I’d pushed her from my life without having ever realized just why it was so important to her to be there.

This is where I excuse myself for a few minutes while I prep the morning coffee.

I’ve found myself, in recent months, waking after just a short period mostly broken sleep, between 2 a.m. and 3:30 a.m. On the regular. At which time I visit the bathroom, then have a hot beverage. It was tea, this morning. I’ll usually finish the remnants of yesterday’s coffee before starting the fresh pot around six or six-thirty. We’ve got one of those fancy coffee makers that grind the beans inside for you. Nice. But the whole shebang has to be cleaned out after each use. So I’ll refill the thing with water, clean out the filter section, then do the grinder part. Then I’ll fetch some beans and do the brew. I like to set it at “bold”. I’d prefer some heartier beans – something in the way of a French or Italian dark roast – but I’d be the only one in the household liking that, so meh.

Everyone’s starting to rise for the day.

What was I talking about…

I think this post was supposed to be about why I’ve been so scarce around here. I would attribute it to introversion taking control for a bit, yeah. There’s been other stuff. It’s been a busy year, healthcare-wise, for me. What’s gotten me into the doctors’ offices and clinics so often, this year, has been largely overwhelming. So, being overwhelmed, I’ll not do even the things I love. I won’t hydrate as I should, won’t mind my eating habits properly, either eating too much or losing my appetite. Not been feeling like doing much of anything. I’ve found myself in bed a lot – doing what I call “time travel”. It’s just doing what I can to engage myself in a kind of sleep that’s all about skipping the present and, when I wake, maybe I’ll be in a future state in which whatever’s bugging me won’t any longer matter. I’ve been honest with myself, likening this to a kind of “suicide” – a “‘fun’-sized” death in that it forgoes actual living to sleep through it, to skip it to get to the end. Or closer to the end. There’s nothing about life to it, rather its avoidance. I’ve been wasting so much of my life skipping past it, that way. Sometimes, it bothers me immensely. At others, though? I channel the little boy who first started to wonder about life in the first place, wonder what was so spectacular about it. There’s no creativity during a period of this shit for me. I just want to get to the other side. No creativity, little or no daydreaming. And, yeah, there’s the medical stuff.

Even yesterday morning, there was medical drama to be had. Firetrucks, ambulances, paramedics… All because I didn’t feel safe-enough for an Uber ride into the hospital. Felt like, on top of what was the meat of the “why” happening-

I just completely lost my train of thought. I’m so tired. I’ve been tired. Too much so to participate in my own life, to document it. I certainly haven’t been actively improving it. This long-assed post, just to say I’ve been tired.