Off the wagon…

In so many different ways. I haven’t had any nicotine since Thanksgiving, and I am very proud of that. I haven’t done any hard drugs, though that may have a lot to do with opportunities. But I have been indulging in escapism in ways that are very counter-productive to my health. I have been watching ideas and dreams fizzle out as the opportunities I made available to myself seem more and more distant. It’s not a good look, but it is the one I have.

My privilege has led me to value productivity over escapism, so I don’t do drugs…

Randy Feltface

I watched this puppet say those words on YouTube last week and it just kind of rocked me to my core. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. I am a CIS White Adult Male who is probably more comfortable with what he actually is than I should be. I recognize a lot of my privilege because I have spent time with many who don’t have privilege to this extent throughout my life. I have some mental illness inside of me, I think a combination of psychology and chemical imbalance. But right now, I need a new home.

I feel like ideally in the utopia that lives inside of my head, I would devote four hours in the morning to looking through ads and apps and things trying to find new places to look at and consider for moving. Than take an hour or two for lunch, then another four hours in the afternoon actually driving around and looking. Going to meet prospective landlords and that kind of thing. And if I did this everyday (remember, I don’t have a regular job to interrupt this process), I feel like I would be able to smash this out of the ballpark and have it be done.

But that is not what happens.

I start the day worrying because I don’t have any money. It’s almost the end of the month, and if I just had a little bit of discipline I would go to the grocery store and buy some food so I could stop worrying about that. Then I chat on the phone with a friend for a bit. The smart thing to do would just be to chat with him long enough to get motorvated, but I don’t. I talk to him until I can’t stand it anymore because I know I’m going to be alone with myself if I get off the phone, and so I just chat about nothing. About the video game we were playing, or the people we used to know. But eventually I get hungry and say I have to go eat, but really what I am going to do is drink coffee. Because coffee is filling.

So I watch YouTube for a bit, or whatever streaming service I feel guilty about paying for. Then I take a nap. Because talking on the phone is exhausting when you’re a closet introvert. It’s always a two hour nap. I don’t understand why, but that is what my body requires.

Then I figure it’s too late to really search for anything, so I might as well search for somewhere to live later. Might as well just play a few games. And I shut my brain off for just a while longer. Until inevitably I decide to spend twenty or thirty minutes pushing numbers and apps around and try to find somewhere to call tomorrow.

I spend the day anywhere but the present, because I am too terrified to make the choice to make my life better. If this isn’t depression, grief and mental illness, I don’t know what is. I don’t argue that. What I do argue is whether or not I should hate myself for allowing it to have gotten this bad. And as long as that argument is going on, I don’t have to face the fact that no matter what I do, she’s still dead. I still have to find another place to live, and as long as I do nothing, I will never be a rock star.

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