I can literally feel all of my interpersonal relationships get stressed when I start filling them with more than they can hold. I’ve only ever had one that held me, and it didn’t. It was broken. I wish we had let each other know that it was ok (or at least inevitable) to be broken instead of thinking we were going to fix each other. I did want to be fixed, I just didn’t know yet that that was impossible. I think that’s the danger of getting settled too young, the expectations are too high.
I’ve been trying to listen to my gut feelings more, as I’ve found that they’re startlingly accurate. Never *exactly* as I predicted, but always along the same vein as what I expected with just one subtle and novel twist – usually in a good way, like the Collective spares me from that one final detail that truly would have made the situation disastrous, but let’s me know that I *really* should stop and listen when the air around me is trying to tell me something.
I love my job in that 1984 big brother way. It’s ripped me apart, and crushed my soul, but at the same time it’s the only place where I can go to make these broken pieces feel like they’re functional. What I do isn’t important yet (I can feel it coming) because I’m willing to bet every single scrap of bitcoin that I’ve made so far (plus what I’m trying to free from these scrap laptops) that your job has done the same thing to you too.
I suppose I must admit to myself, and I’ve never said it to anyone *or* myself, but I’ve got some pretty deep daddy issues. And just like everything else in my life apparently, I take the most normal issue and stretch it out into something so strange that no human alive can possibly relate to me.
There’s something of major consequence here that I can feel myself not saying. I don’t want this to become another one of “those” blogs. I’m taking two months off of work, not only to heal my physical body, but also to figure out who I am outside of work. It’s been a very long time, two major relationships, at least two moves, a fire, a dog, a couple of suicides, several funerals, and a major vascular surgery since I’ve actually had time to check on who I am and what is left of who I was after all this.
So, I had a terrible nightmare last “night”. I’m no stranger to nightmares (though they happen less and less these days) but this one was unusual. For starters, while I have had many many bad dreams about my Father, this one was about my Mother.
Where is home? I always feel so embarrassingly superficial about the pang in my chest when answering that question. There are so many vagrants out there, ranging from the downright abject homeless, to everyone who’s past has been ripped up and swept away behind them. It happens to everyone, and I guess after all is said and done I’m just one tiny piece of everyone so what the hell is my actual problem?
The story is complicated, and I’m not sure I even want to make it make sense for you (yes you, random clickhole casualty). I wasn’t even going to touch this name, I’ve spent years avoiding this name despite how incredibly common it is.