Categories
Non-Fiction

Ramble On

Oh, hey. I have a car again.

With that comes the ability to get places again, but not much of anywhere to go other than the grocery store and work right now because of covid. It also means costs — car payments, insurance, gas. I also had to move in the middle of a pandemic, so that was fun. My rent cost went up, while I’m on reduced hours and pay at work and waiting to hear back from the state to see if I’m going to get any of the work share money I’m supposed to qualify for. They’re apparently hella backlogged, so that’s a joy. Thank fuck I’d been saving up to make a down payment on a car — I put less down to start than I wanted, because I needed to get into a car, but didn’t feel safe enough not to have the cushion anymore.

I want to scream into the void about everything going on. But I feel like I can’t offer any new insight, that there isn’t anything I can add to the discourse that isn’t articulated better by someone else. Online I’ve surrounded myself with people who believe similar things I do, so I never really have to finish a rant, they already are headed down the path themselves and we just walk together. Offline, I feel like I’m surrounded by people who are so selfish they can’t see past the end of their noses, so beat down by the system they have no fight left in them, or literal assholes. It goes so far as all three groups will roll their eyes at me if I say something — and I’m not good at holding my tongue, so I do say a lot of things. It’s so bad that when I do encounter someone in meat space that doesn’t immediately recoil when I so much as breath half a sentence of political opinion, I almost immediately want to pinch myself.

I feel a need to write. It’s visceral. But I don’t know what I need to say. Do I need to write fiction, non-fiction? I can’t find coherent thoughts, threads to spin and weave from. I have a video appointment for tomorrow to see if maybe I need medication, if maybe this fight I feel like I’m constantly having with my brain is ADHD or something. If I make sure I have caffeine daily, it feels like it’s easier to wrangle my brain into doing the things I need to do, but it also feels like it’s still enough of a fight that when I finish doing enough of what I need to do, I just can’t do anymore. And I feel trapped, because I don’t have a safety net. I question my choice to cut off my family, wonder if maybe having their support would help — but then I remember that I didn’t feel supported. I was made to feel like I was lazy, because I didn’t do what they wanted me to the way they wanted me to. It didn’t occur to them that maybe there was a reason for the way I was behaving. There really is nothing like struggling just to face people, only to get a passive aggressive, ‘it’s about fucking time’ in response to my emerging from my room. To not even considering that maybe I needed to get help with what I was facing, because I was made to believe that I was just fucking lazy and needed to pull myself up by my bootstraps.

I sit here, so upset over things I can’t change. So frustrated that I feel all alone in the world. I have my online friends, they’ll talk to me when I need it… but sometimes I need more, you know? Having a voice on the other end of an internet pipe isn’t the same as someone who you’re sharing a meal with, or someone who will just do the small things for you when you can’t find it in you to do them yourself. A person to argue the rules of a board game with, or stand in a parking lot for three hours after the game store closes just shooting the shit because neither of you want to go home.

I feel so fucking alone. I feel like I’m standing on the edge of the void, and one misstep and I fall in.

It fucking terrifies me.

Categories
Non-Fiction

Nothing But Dust Between the Ears

I spend a lot of time in my head. A lack of car in the bay area—a place hostile to anyone wanting to use public transit outside the center of Oakland, SF, and San Jose—means I don’t go out a lot. When I do, I’m either at the mercy of catching a ride with someone who has different goals for the outing, or I spend enough time walking or riding busses and BART that what should be a nice afternoon or evening turns into a whole day affair.

So instead I stay home and hide in my head. I write, I watch stuff on streaming, I try to find a thread of focus that lets me do website work, or lately I’ve started finding games that work under Linux due to Steam’s proton. Castle Crashers is good relatively mindless fun — button mash to commit cartoon violence and laugh at poop jokes. All of that to say, I think a lot.

I end doing that sort of navel gazing that leaves me afraid to step out the front door. I end up with the idea that people are so foreign that attempting to communicate is impossible. At least until I spark with someone, and then I am so desperate for human conversation, I’ll literally bury them with my thoughts until I feel guilty because clearly they have something better to do. Thanks mom for putting the seed in my head that I don’t have anything useful to say, singing You Talk Too Much to a small child really can give them a fucking complex.

I’m not even sure where I intended to go with this, hell, I don’t even know if anyone beyond one person in particular who subscribed to my rss feed even bothers to read what I put up here. The lack of feedback from anyone else, unless I pointedly ask for it, makes me feel like I’m talking to a void. And I cross post to most of my social media with this shit — in theory this goes up on Twitter, tumblr, and diaspora automagically, and I try to manually cross post to my pillowfort even though everyone following me there already follows me on one of the other three.

Hell, I feel like I’m just whining for attention at this point, and I probably am. But I find it I try to self censor against that, I don’t get anything written or posted. I suppose I should just go back to sorting through my photos backlog and posting galleries of those. At least I wouldn’t feel like I’m wasting someone’s time posting those.

Categories
Non-Fiction

What is the darkness without the light?

Used to be, I was constantly writing shit on my LiveJournal. Just whatever the fuck was on my mind. I’m sure a lot of it was shit, but it was a thing I did. And I followed other people who did the same, and they wrote awesome things or mundane things, and I enjoyed reading and commenting.

I mean, I guess I could do this on some of the newer social networks, but they don’t feel the same? And I can do the writing here, but I don’t even know if anyone reads any of this shit I post. Especially since I do so infrequently.

It feels like just yelling into the void. At least when I post my stupid like quips on the bird hell site, or in Discord, I see emoji and shit to tell me people are there.

I just feel so disconnected these days.