November 24th, 2001

nanowrimo 2010

OK. You win.

" … I most certainly could have more. But I no longer have that propensity to want. I remember as a kid wanting all these things, re-living the life of all those little kids in television oh so excited as they battled Skeletor. And then, somehow along the way I learned that wanting was wrong. That saying I needed this and that was so heinous a crime. That it was a lie and represented such selfishness that could NEVER be forgiven. Because forgiving defies all laws of physics. It destroys the shame and wrong. And nothing can be created or destroyed. It can only be cycled onwards towards infinity. And now I do not want anymore. … "

The writer above points out that forgiving defies the laws of physics; that it destroys the shame and wrong. I want an exclamation right here, "My God!" but I can't bring myself to invoke deity. No exclamation seems to fit.

What a painful observation this is. I know the feeling; a Titanic scene, floating in a black ocean clutching at the flotsam. How sad that we reach the point where we catch at the detritus of life — not because we treasure it but because it is familiar.

What to do? Where do you find the inspiration to continue when continuation is an end in itself — without passion, without reward. When the physics of the universe decrees that the impetus to continue is an evil, a lie, a shame of athanasian scope

My mood is foul. Personal problems are overwhelming me. I cannot care for my family, I cannot care for myself. My scope is circumscribed to a degree I cannot tolerate. I don't know how to overtop or even circumvent the obstacles that transect my path at every turn. I feel like I'm in the middle of a room full of black cats, trying to find a safe path out … one that will not have been crossed again and again.

I am not ready to be on disability. I don't think I can live on that, for one thing. For another — in the degree that I consent to do so — I have always defined myself externally in terms of my interests. In Miami I was "dad" (I was raising my family), later "the movie guy" (I had a movie fan club of 100 people that never missed an interesting premier), for many years, in various locations "the programmer" in that I have had an abiding interest in computer programming whether I was doing it or teaching it. Now I am losing that external identity. I can't answer the question "What do you do?" anymore. On disability or some such the question becomes unfathomable. My own internal definition of myself I think I will not share with others. It is entirely to personal and has not altered substantially. It is inadequate for the first time in my life. I've always been self-defined. Accepting help is not my forté but I've always been sensible on the subject. Now I find my self-sufficiency inadequate to the task and no help forthcoming. Suffice it to say that who I am is changing. I don't like it. I can't deal with it well. Change has been a linchpin in my life. I don't fear change, never have. I don't like this change however. I am afraid of it.

I have said to others — on enough occasions that it has become trite to them — that the signs of aging that I detect in myself are not the typical intellectual resistance to change that besets so many but an calcification of my emotional acceptance of altered circumstances. I don't behave as though things differ even though I know it and understand what I must do. Even though I do the things I must, my spirit lags behind.

And here am I. I go back to work. I apply for disability. I research why I've gone blind. I go to the doctors. I care for my mother. I support my sister's every effort. I seek some remedy for my brother's situation. Though I do all these things my heart is not in it.

Back to work. Work does not seem to want me, and I am afraid I'm going to go through the humiliation of learning that I can't do what is essentially a menial task in my chosen profession.

Apply for disability. It's the sensible thing to do. It could take months to get approved. I don't want to get approved. I want to work. I don't think I can get approved anyway. They don't give you disability for being blind anymore. "Blind people can do anything sighted people can do," is the current attitude. The most likely situation is that I am going to wind up being retrained for another profession. At my age? I'm too old to pay my dues again. *sigh*

I research. I'm at the point of directing my doctors' attentions' to various publications and resources that I know about and of which they seem to be unaware.

Go to the doctors.

I've run out of specialists to visit. The sensible thing to do is what I've been told to do nearly from the beginning … "get used to it". To Hell with that noise.

My mother. Essentially a trying and futile task. The woman is older than the hills, will soon need more attention than I can give her unless I do wind up at home all the time. Mentally she is slipping. This is too hard for me.

Support my sister. What a laugh. She does all the work these days. But I do my part, too. I've tried to help her go to school, change jobs, deal with a truly obnoxious work environment. I've counseled and supported and worked hard to try and help her. I wish I could do the cooking and the errands that she is forced to undertake so that all she needs do is go to work every day. I simply can't. I destroy more food than I create when I try to cook. Transportation for the blind in Jefferson City is virtually non-existent in any useful fashion. If it is here I don't know how to get it working. I wish I could do the grocery shopping. Although grocery stores are a special Hell for me.

My brother's situation. I don't want to go here. He suffered a catastrophe on Thanksgiving that I am not prepared to deal with. My family is isolating us, one from another, in a time when I should be there and helping. I don't want to talk about it.

My heart is not in it. I just can't deal with all this shit anymore. My every effort is impeded, if not utterly stymied. Even when I put forth a good effort, something increasingly difficult, the constant battering against bureaucracy and buffeting by the winds of Missouri culture is simply too much for me to continue against.

I guess what I'm saying is "I give up." OK, Universe, you win. "Uncle!" Don Quixote no more, I surrender to you Cyrano's plume. What is it you want me to do? I can't go on like this. Tell me what it is I've got to do to retrieve anything at all.

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