“Mayday, maday – ship sinking!” I’ll pack and escape today. There is no other place I can go to other than my old home – which is where a large deal of my history took place. Back into the lion’s den. Or freak out here and potentially get a visitation by police and paramedics with a loaded needle.
I wanted to see opportunity, I wanted to grab the ball and run with it in an all resolved attempt to desensitize myself somehow. The second night in with poor sleep and only about 4 hours – at most – I fold. I’ve been going on like this forever. And now my nervous system is ground down to nothing but bloody, infected, festering tissue figuratively speaking. One more night like this – and god knows what. So I do what I’ve always been doing: I retreat, I remove myself from the scene of the torture. What else was there to do? Confront the landlady and her family and then what? Explain to her that kids – adorable ones, b.t.w. – can’t be kids around me? That they can’t get up at 6 am? That they have to accommodate me instead of vice versa? Probably not. Even if they tried to make room for my “nonsense” – I’d hate myself to ask and bug them out in the first place. I am fucking joke. A cruel error in man’s evolution. A disgrace and a nuisance for everybody – including myself. So I fold. And go back to a place for about 10 days to a fortnight, which I don’t have the fondest memories of.
Again, I’ve reached the end of my rope. Whatever progress I keep talking myself into crumbles to null and void in the face of situations like this, which brutally expose my chronic vulnerabilities. There is no room for a disability like this. There is no room for me. If I could be sure that our physical existence is all there is, I’d most certainly commit suicide any day now. I’ve had it. Thoroughly. I’ve gone through 48 years of physical torture, I’ve taken the blame, humiliation, ignorance, evil-mindedness of those taking advantage of my vulnerabilities – I’ve withstood it and put up with it all and while I was doing that, I kept talking myself into this vision of being better at some point. This has been going on for decades. There were some periods that actually did feel better – much better than this. It is due to those – rather short – times I actually had a point in trudging on. For otherwise, doing away with myself would be a service to mankind. A (behavioral) therapist once told me, I had to “make others put up with me” – I found the stress on make them odd, if not plain obscene. Needless to say I could never figure out how that would work for me: Act on my impulses would have probably involved getting physical at some point – and I’m not exactly talking about the “cuddly” kind of physical. So, what else was there to do than suck it up and be on my best behavior, even if that behavior meant putting myself 2nd, 3rd, last?
But I’ve gotten driven to a point now, where acting on said impulses might not come as a choice any more. In other words: Depending on how often and strongly borders will be crossed again at where I’m headed for, bad things might happen. At the very least I am going to completely lose it at some point. The kettle’s been close to boiling point for too – fucking – long!
If you don’t hear from me in a while…. well, you’ll be safe to assume that the above alluded to scenario happened. At the very least I’ll be immersed in a not-so-short to-do list: Notifying all my case-handling offices of my temporary absence, consult my lawyer about the possibility of cancelling my lease without notification and more importantly, finding out about legal implications and consequences, with particular regard for the disability I collect. Find a realtor to scout a new place for me and on the latter, prepare a case for disablity to cover the expense to avoid undue hardship. Cancel and rearrange medical and other appointments. Think of and pack everything I will be needing for about 10 days. Arrange for my tomato and basil plant to be taken care of while I’m absent (or take them with me). Pack all electronic equipment, including the wireless router, smartphone, backup drive, power supplies, charging devices, software CDs and whatnot. Pack the guitar (my buddy’s guitar, actually, I just sold my Fender US Stratocaster yesterday in order to get a cheap Squier Strat). Take a book or two, iPods, …. in short: Half of my household.
This is it, folks. I’m falling apart. I’m losing grip of it all, a grip that’s become more like frantic clinging. It is not by choice that I surrender. The debilitating physical outcomes of it all force me to. There is no way of trying to rebuild a life when the engine keeps sputtering and breaking down every other mile or two.
Thanks for travelling with me for a while. I have no clue how to go on from here. I seem to have exhausted all options I made for myself. This is bad. Very bad.