January 5th, 2002

nanowrimo 2010

Snores with the cork in tight

Q: Why don't crazy people get lost in the forest?

I missed my entry yesterday. Today was a big nothing so I'll catch you up with yesterday. It was a bad day for me. Surprize! Like I've been having lots of good days lately …

I woke feeling utterly nasty after a night constantly interrupted. I was up with diarrhea all night. I dreamed unpleasantly. I won't bore you with the dreams. They were ugly, vaguely disturbing and distinctly gory. Dreaming of blood while trying to retain a grain of consciousness so you don't shit your bed is not a good combination.

That cheerful beginning for the day aside, I found nothing to eat for breakfast. The larder is bare these days. I have to eat something, my blood sugar is low in the mornings and I'll have real problems if I don't. I found a frozen Belgian waffle from the Mesozoic and was forced to warm it in the oven because our toaster (fucking toaster!) wouldn't accept it. I got that done, buttered and syruped the blamed thing and walked away from the oven without turning it off. It ran all day. I got a mild chewing out (everything that happens between me and my family is mild — in the same sense that my Mother is humble as a tsunami) on that score which was just a divine ending for a crappy day.

My LTD packet arrived the day before and I spent the whole day filling out forms and distributing them to my doctors to fill out pointlessly. There is no chance in the considered opinions of the medical profession and of those who seem as though they should know that that I could ever qualify for disability either through my company or the Social Security Administration. Why am I doing this unpleasant work and putting all these people through this bureaucracrap™? I don't know. I really don't know. I think that bothers me as much as anything. My work really doesn't want me back. In the past, in such circumstances, I'd have turned my back on 'em and found a better job just to spite 'em. Hell, I not just would, I did on two occasions. I can't bring myself to do it this time.

Sheer funk? Am I getting old? Too many weighty circumstances? I just don't know. Ain't it the shits?

Feeling miserable brought out my best when my mother and sister insisted I accompany them shopping. This trip was for my benefit somehow. I didn't hear about it until about thirty minutes beforehand. I still am not sure why I was to go along … I think it involved a night-stand. I don't know why. I don't need a night-stand.

Our destination was a real downer for me. They took me to the Salvation Army Thrift Store. They had a ball sifting through the clothes while I sat in the furniture department in a broken recliner (the only inhabitable chair I could find) blinking back tears I didn't know I had in me.

I'm not real conscious of "social position" or any of that tripe, but sitting there, smelling the Thrift Store and some of its denizens brought home to me things I just didn't want to deal with. I used to drive up to Aventura Mall in Miami, run up to Palm Beach or Bayside to do my shopping. I bought my clothes at Dillards. Now none of these are exactly elite — upscale, maybe, but basically heaps and bales above the Thrift Store.

We are not broke (let me put in the obligatory yet) and I don't understand why it was important to be treated to the psychodrama of seeing my mother and sister pawing through the cast-off clothing with the locals. I don't understand why I was to look for unneeded furniture in this place. Was there a message? If so I haven't gotten it. I just feel bad.

I came "home" to Missouri to take care of my failing parents. I was to be the rescuer, the one to which they called for help. It didn't work out that way. I've become a pensioner, in all practical terms dependent on my family.

I just don't want to deal with it. On top of it all, I'm getting irritable and weepy in alternating terms. Sure signs of depression. Dr. Jujube doesn't feel strongly about depression medicine and wants to consult with Dr. Slant before prescribing anything. I should have given him a copy of this journal. I think I'll rename it Diary of a Depressed Madman or something. Maybe it'll make a good movie someday.

After running down countless doctors, conflicting with assorted nurses, keeping appointments with Jujube and Slant, missing dinner, leaving my review of To Have and Have Not unfinished (finishing it yesterday was a minor promise to a friend) and generally having a shitty (remember the diarrhea?) day I got home and got a phone call from one of my sons to the effect that his life was shit, nothing was worth this and why and why and why.

We shared a lengthy gripe session. He felt better, I felt worse. I've always been a "complainer" in the estimation of others. Odd that it never made me feel any better. It seems such a relief to them.

I went to bed early. Couldn't sleep, got up repeatedly, went to bed late, slept later than usual and woke feeling like shit. The day has gone downhill since then.

A: Because they can just take the psycho path.
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