lock in

I’m so angry right now, I don’t know what to do. Every goddamned weekend is the same. Relentless, non-stop demands on my time from my fucking godawful workplace that refuses to get me any goddamn help.

I’m suffering from crippling depression, such extreme levels of stress that right now, at this very second, it’s all I can do not to scream. I’m so pissed off that opening my mouth for any reason feels like it will result in an manic, anguished howl. So I’m not saying anything, but that feels like a storm tearing apart my insides.

My own personal tornado, rippling my guts to shreds.

And there’s no help coming. Despite the apparently “tight” and “worker friendly” job market, I can’t even get a call. I see people switching jobs to better ones all around me, but me? Nothing. Not even a phone call. How is that possible, with my resume?

Can they sense my hatred of IT coming off the page? I FUCKING DESPISE IT.

I don’t know what to do. I can’t quit. I have bills to pay. I can’t keep doing what I’m doing, because I’ll jump into traffic. I’m not getting any help at all from the higher ups. Their eyes just glaze over and they immediately change the subject any time I mention how much I don’t want to do this job. They’re ignoring my anguish, because it’s mildly inconvenient.

Christ. Sunday goddamned morning and I’m so stressed out and frustrated, I think I’m going to have a coronary. Sunday fucking morning. I shouldn’t be thinking about work at all, but IT NEVER GOES AWAY.

I hate it so much, but the world doesn’t offer options to guys like me. People who feel into a field when they were fucking children, before they knew shit about shit, and now, twenty years on, burdened with debt and mortgage – there are no options. No way out. No way to go back to school. No way to change fields. What you chose when you were a goddamn child is what you are forever?

I refuse. I refuse, I refuse, I refuse.

Where are the options in this supposed land of opportunity? This system of capitalism, where only one’s gumption is required? I work my fucking ass off, and it’s quite literally going to kill me. Do I quit and lose my house? Does my family get no place to live, because god knows at these prices, we could never afford another one, or even a fucking rental? Do I die by accident, and hope the insurance money lets my wife and daughter get by? What the fuck are my options? Scream, have a heart attack, lose everything? Nothing in between?

The system failed me. It has failed us all, that anyone could get fucked like this.

fumes

Spent the day cleaning a dryer, because my father-in-law left a pen in his pocket and we’re doing his laundry while he recovers from hip surgery.

Hours of scrubbing with nail polish remover and bleach, and even with a mask, I’m nauseous. Not the day I’d planned for myself.

getting close to ground zero

It feels like I’m living in a loop of repetition. Same clothes. Same day. Same reading. Same writing. Same everything.

Every day, we put the the same plate on the table and fill it with the same food, which only gets worse. Rotting. Decaying.

Entropy is a necessity. We let the bad things in our lives die, so that they may fertilize the good.

one thing at a time

I hate multi-tasking. I do it to myself, I know, but I also know I’m infinitely more efficient when I can focus on one thing at a time.

This workplace does not allow for that. I don’t believe anything good ever comes from split focus. All those things we talk about that make life bearable and create possibilities for happiness or growth, they all start with focus and presence.

There is no such thing when multi-tasking is the norm.

There is only frustration, disorganization and poorly done work.

(I mistyped that as pooly originally, which would be appropriate, because the work that comes out of split focus is often shit.)

I need to find ways to focus. To do one thing at a time. That begins, I think, with telling people to shut up and go away. These constant interruptions, these demands to follow them down some unnecessary rabbit hole, they need to stop. FIGURE IT OUT YOURSELVES. It’s not actually that difficult if you put even a modicum of brainpower to it.

Also, I don’t need to hear your life story, or the story of the last call you took, or whatever random thing you feel you have to regurgitate out of your mouth at me. I’m considered by most to be a quiet guy. There’s a reason for that. The older I get, the more I realize that those who talk the most have the least to say.

I only try to speak when it’s appropriate, when it’s necessary or I have something to convey. And even then, I try to keep it to the point. The only time this isn’t true is when I’ve had a beer or two and we’re just bullshitting around. I like joking around. It’s important. It’s fun. Otherwise, conversations should exist to solve problems, to create understanding, to communicate ideas that need communication.

Anything else means shut the fuck up and listen. Or go about your business.

Silence is the greatest gift.

nothing to say

The farther I get into life, and into The Mungk, the more I realize I have nothing to say. I don’t know why I speak.

I mean, I have a million things to say, but someone’s usually already saying them, with a bigger and louder platform than I ever could.

What can I contribute? Nothing new, that’s for sure. Mostly, I simply want to be of service. A pair of helping hands that do something worthwhile. Nothing insane. Nothing complicated. Only helpful.

I’d like to lead the world better than I found it, but not in a grand, world-changing, Ghandi kind of way. Maybe a someone got a nice meal kind of way.

Or I helped someone with something small kind of way. We’ll see.

the negative

That’s where I am. I am the negative. The everything hates me. The why me? I can’t take much more, even though I’m sure it’s probably all my fault, or at least, way more in my control than I allow myself to believe.

getting there

I jumped so far ahead last week with a heavy spate of editing that I was pleasantly surprised that I could still hit my targets with all of the insanity surrounding surgery and work this week.

Makes me happy. Maybe one day, I will be able to move beyond the universe’s microaggressions and the trauma of this past life and move forward. I have ideas, after all.

I only need time and space and opportunity to complete them.

surgery day

Not for me, but my father-in-law. Things have been rough lately, not only because the jobs of five people were melted down to one and dumped on me, who already had a steady workday. I was able to hire a helper after a month of flailing and frustration, but with training yet, and the fact that they only allowed me a frontline tech, it’s five people’s jobs being down by what’s essentially one and a half.

The home front has been rough as well, with lots of family drama as my mother-in-law’s health degrades from Alzheimer’s and my father-in-law’s hip made it so he could barely function. He’s in surgery today, which he desperately needs and I hope gives him the relief he needs to refocus on what needs doing in his life.

I would like a nap. Or a decent night’s sleep. I suspect I’m a long way off from that.

pounding heart

It’s too much. All the extras. The work stuff. The family stuff. The internal existential crisis stuff.

All I wanted to do was write and read. Have some peace and fucking quiet. Some good music. A couple of beers or a nice glass of wine, maybe an old fashioned, done up right.

I want time alone with my family, relaxing. I want Saturdays around the pool and Sundays at the theatre.

I want quiet mornings. I want a workday that ends at a particular time, not “you’re salaried, so whenever”.

Every morning, I wake with palpitations. Every. Single. Morning.

I have so much left to do, but at this rate, they’re going to kill me first.