NOSTALGIA IS A WEAPON

11:38 pm. Still awake. Don’t have the earliest of days tomorrow, but I’ll still be up before dawn. I can’t sleep, thoughts darting wildly about, uncertainties rearing their collective head.

I accepted a job promotion today. Same company, different location within the same city-area. I’ve been at my current post for two and a half years, made a home for myself within these walls, with these people. In the last few months I’ve often hated going to work, but that doesn’t make things any easier right now. I’ll admit it: I’m scared. I’m shaking up my foundation, leaving a place of comfort for one with an unknown future. Most of my local friends work at the place I’m leaving; will I find new friends where I’m going? Will I be able to establish a good authority, be able to make decisions to better the environment I’m moving to? Will I be able to make a strong life for myself outside of work with an unstable schedule?

Not that there aren’t great reasons to have taken this job: a fairly substantial raise, the opportunity to show myself capable of additional duties, adding some hearty credits to my resume. And maybe, just maybe, the force of change tossing me out of the funk I’ve managed to find myself in once again. This last bit is as much a plea, a prayer, as it is blind optimism.

Done talking about work now. There’s so much more to say about other things, but the need for sleep gets more urgent by the minute. Another post soon.

To my right, sitting on the bed with me, a rotating cast of items: Czerny and Chopin music folios, Chris Adrian’s book The Children’s Hospital, a burned mix cd. Among these are the usual suspects, the ever-present: my external hard drive, headphones, and laptop. These things are only displaced from their home every other week to change the sheets, and on the rare occasion when I have guests.  I get strange looks when people hear that I sleep with all this stuff on my bed. “But they take up so much room!” No, not really. I don’t need that much space, and I’ve got more than half my bed all to myself. “It’s convenient,” I tell them, “to be able to reach over and check my email or jot down a note when I first wake up, or to listen to music when I can’t sleep.” This is true, but I suspect it’s not the whole truth. It seems like it’s easier to feel lonely when you’ve got a big bed to yourself. Lying there in the dark, you extend your arm under the sheets and find only cold, empty space along your entire reach. The feeling of isolation that comes along with that is not generally conducive to helping me fall asleep with a clear mind.

These objects are a poor substitute for a warm body to snuggle up to. But for now they are a collective placeholder for what I’ve not yet found. So it goes.

Besides, the hug pillow just creeps me out for some reason.

Fragments of a tired mind. Here we go.

I wish I had a better sense of reading people. I wish I had a better sense to judge the overall climate of a situation. I have no idea whether I’m the one screwing things up, or whether other forces are involved. I’m too needy, too pushy. I don’t show enough interest. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t. Proper communication is akin to running your finger along a fine edge; too far to either side and someone is bound to get cut. And yet the idea of a perfect middle seems fairly impossible to me, almost fictional. Can you ever really understand another person well enough to read, to predict, to act and speak with precision? Yet I have this kind of rapport with a few close friends, this connection wherein conversation, even in difficult circumstances, is effortless, free-flowing, and there are never any misconstrued lines, never any bruised egos.

I’ve recently come to the realization that, over the years, I’ve unfairly allocated many of my most despicable personality faults to a (perceived?) mental illness. What it really boils down to is my inability to take responsibility for my own life. All of my academic failures are a result of seeing the danger, knowing it was coming, and falling easily into the role of the helpless victim as it continued to approach steadily. I’m not certain I could have stopped it overtaking me, but I’m pretty damn sure that I could have cushioned the blow, or maybe even dodged it completely. It would have taken some serious work on my part, some fucking blood, sweat, and tears, and I think that’s the key: I think I’m afraid of true sacrifice. I’ll give and give until it begins to push against the edges of my comfort barrier, but once that surface tension starts to break I let go, I give up. Life, truly fucking living is going beyond what’s comfortable, pushing yourself to the max and knowing damn well that you’ve earned the satisfaction when you reach the end of the chosen path. Hard work yields generous rewards.

It’s also time to stop allowing others to influence my self-perception negatively. I am a person, something real, something whole, entirely independent from others’ thoughts and feelings regarding my place in the world. There have been people in the past that I’ve undeservedly given love and trust to, and there will undoubtedly be more somewhere down the line. I want someone special in my life, but goddamn it, I don’t need someone, at least not right now. Things, people, relationships: all take time, and a lot of trial and error. There is no single answer that is applicable across the spectrum. Quit trying to simplify what is, by nature, complicated. Answering “C” every time is likely to get you a few correct answers, but a whole hell of a lot of wrong ones, too.

Today’s the day to grow up, to start taking some initiative. Learn to acknowledge life’s disappointments without dwelling on them, to use the resulting pain as fuel to continue momentum forward. There will be blind spots, pitfalls that can’t be forseen. It’s okay to fall; the courage lies in picking yourself back up again. There is a life waiting for me at the end of this tunnel, and maybe I’m finally beginning to see the faintest echo of light up ahead. Take life as it comes, one day at a time. Some days will be baby steps, others will be confident strides. Either way, Keep. Moving. Forward.

And hey, while you’re at it, don’t forget to let the people you love know how important they are.

(Psst, you guys! Thanks for being there. Love ya’ll more than I’ll ever be able to tell you.)

as for all your cares
put them in the air and I’ll breathe in
until you tell me “no”

-Denison Witmer, “East From West”

I don’t think my coworkers are taking too kindly to the “new me” that I unveiled today. Everybody keeps asking me if I’m okay, what’s wrong, and while it’s getting annoying, I can’t blame them. Yesterday I was energetic, smiling, joking, angry, yelling, profane, etc. Today I’m near-mute, eyes-to-the-ground, slightly lethargic, and pretty emotionless. I haven’t been this reserved since I was sixteen. I’d be asking what’s wrong, too.

How do you explain to someone that you’ve decided to shut yourself down for a while? See, in the last year, I’ve become a very different person than I remember being. Open, easy to talk to, social. I’ve made a lot of connections with people. I realized last night, in a fit of depression, how incredibly vulnerable this makes me feel. I’ve stretched myself too far and too thin, and I just can’t take it anymore. I can’t risk being hurt right now. I care too much about my job and the people I work with, and as a result I’ve become increasingly upset over small, stupid things at work. No more. It’s time to withdraw, to crawl back inside that old shell that used to be my home. Observation rather than participation. I may be completely wrong, but this feels safer.

Oh, and I’ve started dating someone. Geez, this should be interesting. I wonder how he’ll react when I see him tonight.

EDITED to add: Wow. Rereading this a few hours later, I could see how some of you might think I’m quite the asshole. I still think this is necessary, but I’m now going to have to carry the burden of potentially causing others damage in the process. I hope that can be avoided. I certainly don’t mean any offense, but I suppose we’ll see what happens.

Tonight is one of those nights when I feel I am truly alone. There’s this overwhelming feeling that, no matter how great a support system I have, I’ll always fail because I’m incapable of holding myself up. I’m hyperemotional. I’m on the verge of tears, and I have no idea why. I really don’t feel all that down, all things considered. Just alone.

There’s this constant monologue running in my head, the voice that does all my thinking for me. Lately I’ve been unable to make it shut the hell up, and it’s getting rather exhausting. I need a break from myself, if that makes sense. I need other things to occupy my mind with so I can silence the perpetual commentary.

I’ve also been bandying about this idea about my relationships with other people. I’m grateful for the fact that I have people out there who love and care for me. But, in addition to the wonderful comfort, there’s this other side. Being loved is terrifying, and painful. It means that I can fail people. One of my greatest fears lies in the failing of others, the possibility that I’ll be the bad friend/son/lover/etc. That, no matter how hard I try, I’ll fuck it up, or that the effort will not be good enough.

Sigh. This was supposed to be an entry linking to Zefrank’s video blog. I spent several hours there today, laughing and appreciating his perspective. Wit combined with intelligence go a long way with me. I think I’ve developed a small internet crush.

So yeah, go check out his site. Sorry about all the other stuff. I’m just in a mood.

This MSNBC article irks me. Claiming that song lyrics are responsible for an increase in sexual activity in teens seems like a very small-minded view. How about factoring in other forms of media? What percentage of these kids has seen an American Pie movie, or watched The OC or Laguna Beach (while I’ve never watched either show, their previews contain some fairly steamy action)? We live in a culture that is all about promoting sex to teens. There are tons of things other than song lyrics that need to be taken into consideration.

I never listened to much sexually explicit music when I was younger (I don’t now, actually). But I remember hearing Liz Phair’s Exile In Guyville when I was twelve. I’m thinking of one song in particular, a song called Flower. Here are some of the lyrics:

I want to fuck you like a dog; I want to be your blowjob queen; I’ll fuck you ’til your dick is blue.

Now I will admit that this had a small effect in shaping my view of sexuality, but it certainly didn’t have any bearing on when I started having sex. I heard that song and others like it at twelve, and didn’t have sex until I was nineteen (well, okay, depends on your definition of sex, but still). I realize that the article is likely referring to more of the hardcore rock and rap songs, stuff about “fuckin’ bitches and hos” and god-knows what else (though I’m not trying to pigeonhole either genre, there’s good along with the bad). But I really think that has more to do with shaping male and female roles than it does promoting sex. It’s the same thing with drugs in music. Whether it be The Beatles and “Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds” or Tom Petty and “Mary Jane”, songs don’t influence me to do drugs. Well, except one (“Rain In England” makes me pine for a good hallucinogen). Anyway, there is one voice of reason in the article:

“It’s a little dangerous to just pinpoint one thing. You have to look at everything that’s going on in a young person’s life,” she said. “When somebody has a healthy sense of themselves, they don’t take these lyrics too seriously.”

Exactly.

Maybe I don’t know what I’m talking about here. But I would like to point out the startling inconsistency between media and parents/teachers. Once again, we live in a culture that promotes sex to teens. However, a great majority of schools teach abstinence-only sex ed (especially in the South). We have a problem here. No wonder kids are confused.

Let me start by saying that this is gonna be a difficult entry. I’m having major issues figuring out how to write it. It needs out, but I’m not sure it’s going to come out well. I hope you’ll bear with me.

I just got back from spending five days in Denver with my dad. There’s been something gnawing at me all week, and here it is: Do I love my father?

I really have no idea how to answer that question. His past sins are forever imprinted in my mind. The alcoholism, the disappearing, the verbal abuse. No ten year-old kid should ever have to hear their mother called a whore. He really fucked up.

But all that happened over a decade ago. I’ve forgiven him for it. I have, right? But then I really think about it. I don’t trust him with any personal info about me. He knows nothing of my sexuality, of the people I’ve dated, of my friends. There’s this wall that stays up when I’m around him. I don’t feel comfortable telling him these things. That makes me think that maybe I haven’t actually forgiven him. And I feel like an asshole for it.

Introducing he and Enji this week (oh yeah, I saw Enji the other day!) was kind of a scary thing for me. She’s the only one of my friends he’s ever met. I’m completely comfortable around her. Instead of putting on a face, I’m myself. I think it’s the closest I’ve come to being “normal” around my dad, and that’s very weird for me. Mixing someone who knows some of the most private things about me with someone who, when it comes down to it, doesn’t know me at all… well, I kinda spazzed. I think I hid it well enough, but I was feeling particularly vulnerable that night.

I hide things from him. I don’t disclose any personal details of my life. It’s always a “Hey, how are you?”- “Oh, I’m fine” situation. He heard about the arrest only because he had to, as it affected the timing of the trip. But would I have told him otherwise? I’m not sure.

I get the feeling I’m being entirely unfair to my dad. He loves me, that’s obvious. He really does care. Yet I shut him out, though I try and be subtle enough as to not hurt his feelings. And there it is: I don’t want to hurt his feelings. I feel compelled, not obligated, to call him. I think it would be a shame (and something I would forever regret) if I didn’t have a relationship with my father. My brother has shut him out completely, no communication-style. At least I’m still trying, right? Is that love? It’s certainly not the same love I feel for my friends (hell, for my mother even). Am I being a total fuck, or is this really the best way to handle the situation?

I feel like such a dick. He would love to really know me. But I can’t share that with him. I don’t think I can.

Argh. I’m so conflicted (I know, I know, what’s new?). I think I’m gonna have to give this one some time. Maybe it’ll work itself out.

On a much less serious note, I also got to meet the very cool Eric while I was in Denver. Awesome guy. I hope he shows up around here at some point.

P.S. Oh, and as for the Charlie thing: he was online ten minutes ago, and was completely monosyllabic and standoff-ish when I tried to chat with him. Guess that’s over. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I’ve gotten sick of seeing that last entry at the top of the page, so it’s time for an update.

Charlie went AWOL after our date a couple weeks ago. No returns on the email and phone call I sent his way. A week and a half went by with no word. I understand this is not terribly long, but I started getting antsy. Was this going to be another case of someone disappearing without any explanation? On Monday I finally sent him an email asking where we stood. I got this back:

Kevin,
I am sorry that I haven’t talked to you. I had a great time that night, too. I have been extremely busy and even more stressed lately. Things aren’t going so well and I have just been spending a lot of time to myself. I am really trying to figure out where to go next. It’s not your fault. I have just needed some time to focus on resolving some of my own issues. I hope you are well. Please keep in touch and forgive me for my lack of communication. Have a great day and hope to hear from you again soon.
Charlie

At present I’m deciphering that to mean that he’s still interested, but that he doesn’t have time for me right now. *sigh*. I suppose this is good in some ways. He’s not outright rejecting me. He’s just got other stuff going on, and I respect that, just as I respect his honesty. But I wonder: how long can I hold a crush? Is it worth it to keep hope that something will end up working out?

Goddamn that’s selfish of me. And yet I can’t help but feel that way. I just want a slice of happiness, something new to smile about. I want it, and I’m fucking impatient. Looks like I’m full of faults today.

I realized the other day that I’m constantly on the search for the One. I’ve never dated casually, and I seem to be incapable of it. I’m a creature who bonds for life. If there’s a deep connection, then I’m all in. If there’s not, then I’m not interested. That applies with my closest friends. I don’t often share my life with those who won’t be there for the long haul. It’s very difficult for me to maintain superficial relationships, which I guess is part of the reason I have no dating life to speak of. I’m not okay with the idea of having some sort of a relationship only to have it end in a few months or years. I’m really trying to revise my worldview, to be a little more open. Maybe there are people assigned to certain times and places in my life. Maybe I’m just going to have to accept that. But I’d like to think there’s something to what I feel. I’d like to think there are others out there like me.

Anyway, I’m not saying that I think Charlie is the One. Far from it. But I recognize some sort of potential in him. There’s a rare comfort and ease in speaking to him. I don’t find that often.

So I guess it’s up to me to send the occasional email, to check in and see how things are. Maybe this’ll work, maybe not. All I can do is wait.

Not blogging for over a week has been interesting. I haven’t been particularly inclined to write anything, and I’ve completely lost the mentality of “Oh! I should blog that”. Maybe it’s because I’ve been fairly boring of late, maybe I’ve just lost the writing bug. Either way, things have happened, so I feel the need to update.

I made the disastrous decision to go off my meds, and it just so happens that I did this on a week where my parents were out of town. I was alone for a week, suffering withdrawal. Stupid, stupid, stupid. The effects of the withdrawal were particularly harrowing: I couldn’t sleep for more than an hour at a time, I had no appetite (and therefore didn’t eat), and I went into the worst (short) depressive episode I’d ever experienced. Lying on the floor, wanting to kill myself kinda depression. Every bad thing I’d ever done came back to revisit me, to torture me. Even doing it the right way (with a doctor’s assistance), going off the medication was a BAD IDEA.

I just felt so clouded-up, y’know? So muddled by anything and everything. I thought the pills were the problem, and I wanted a quick fix.

So I’m back on the drugs, albeit in a slightly different configuration. We’ve dropped the Zoloft (which wasn’t doing anything) and I’ve started taking Trazodone to help with the sleep (but which also happens to be an antidepressant). I’m kinda feeling normal….ish. I’m definitely better than where I was a week ago, so I’ll just be content with that for now.

Had a pretty good birthday. Went to dinner last night with the ‘rents, a nice Italian restaurant with plenty of fancy atmosphere, and conveniently located across the street from my mother’s office. Today was lunch with Katie and Patti, and an afternoon showing of Superman Returns (which was actually quite good).

Big news: I’m officially staying in the Atlanta area for the time being. I haven’t yet broke this news to the roomie, and I have no idea how she’ll take it. I’m still going to pay my half of the rent, it’s not like I’m screwing her over or anything…. I just won’t be living there. Eek. I’m not looking forward to that conversation.

But I’ve been here for three and a half months now. Nashville no longer feels like a home to me. I hate that I’m essentially moving back in with my parents. Hate, hate, hate. But really, what choice do I have? I’m not stable, far from it. I don’t think I’m capable of working enough to be able to support myself. I’ve got a great doctor and a great therapist here in Atlanta. If I go back to Nashville, it’s highly likely that I’ll fail again. At least there’s a support system here, someone to fall back on who can take care of me if things get too bad.

I hate this decision. It feels like the wrong thing, though I know logically that it’s the only right choice to make. I’m going to try and start taking classes again this fall, and hopefully within a week or two I’ll find a good piano instructor (finally!) (If there’s one thing that’s opened up for me, this is it. No more worrying about it being a waste since I’m going back to Nashville. I’m not, and so now I can really move forward and do what I want to do). Once again I will be faced with consequences to my actions. But hopefully, HOPEFULLY this time the good will outweigh the bad. Maybe I can finally get my life straightened-out and in the direction it needs to be going. I’m not going to stay here forever, but maybe I just need a year to figure things out. If I can get stable here then I’ll be able to start thinking about where I really need to be.

For right now, this is all I have, so I’m counting on faith (in what?) and blind luck for this to work. I don’t have a lot of self-esteem at the moment, but maybe we can change that, too.

Oh, and I love you guys. All of you. Just thought you should know that.