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I soothe myself with my writing. I’m doing it now. Trying to make my shitshow seem manageable. The edge of the knife I keep skipping along, I’m trying to make it a walk in the park, a song, a lark, a party jag. I’m having a party. You’re invited.
First, I’m going to construct an amazing program of mindfulness and meditation. It won’t change anything, or make me feel better, but it does feel good to be doing something. Like going to a shitty job so you don’t starve to death. Or worse, become silent and irrelevant.
I don’t need to understand if this “coping mechanism” is good or healthy. I need to understand if it’s working? Keeping me holding onto the security straps as I look below at the crashing waves and storms should I flounder here.
Next, I’m going to dive into this most amazing creative project. Bigger than anything I’ve attempted since my six grade “top secret” “do not read” notebook. If I wasn’t planning for my big break, my big escape, I learned my life became less romantic. If this suffering wasn’t *for* something, then what the actual fuck, Jesus?
I’m turning the suffering into something epic. My own Homeric rant across six books. A journey up the mountain of self-discovery. We all get there. God’s plan. Keep moving forward. If that’s the way you want to go.
What about moving in the direction that you don’t want to go?
Kicking my son out of my house? Quitting my shitty job before I land another one. Find a relationship with a subpar woman to fuckup my progress for five more years or so. Nope. Wait. Patience. I am here. I have arrived fully formed and functional. I’m ready to pair up, but only with my equal. I’m going to stand back and listen for a bit. Hear what you’re going on about. See if you naturally curve back into me, us, we.
Today, I’m about moving in my own direction. Understanding when I’m tired. Learning to unplug, relax, and most importantly, have no regrets.
I regret the time I lost with my kids due to my wife’s malfunction. It is not enough regret to wash over the fact that my son is using me, my house, as a landing pad, fine, but he’s not putting any effort into improving his state. He’s sleeping all day. Slipping in and out in the middle of the night. What do you think he’s doing?
There’s only really one thing, right?
Finally, I’m going to learn to stay in my lane. I am only responsible for my actions and words. I could offer him advice. He would go the opposite direction. I could ask for his plans. He knows I’m due for an update.
Maybe if he can make it appear he’s in so much pain and distress that the consequences of his poor management that he might forget this is his fault. He brought this down on his own head. Seven years ago, in high school, when he realised he was never going to beat the Tiger Mom’d Asian kids, my son decided to shoot for the lowest possible effort to get an A.
Well, A-grades are no longer given out when you’re an adult. You did it? Great. You didn’t do it? Great. What’s next?
My son needs to articulate what’s next to himself. He needs to believe his chances. Then he can venture telling me the idea. So, rather than face the moment, he’s avoiding all possible conversations and contact with me, while living in my house, eating my food, sleeping in his temporary room in the music room. A lot of pressure.
His pressure is his own. There’s little I can do or say to make it worse. I guess I could formally kick him out. But what drama is that worth? He could go back to his mom’s house. That would probably last about as long as it did last time, five days.
But, he can’t stay here. He’s got a burner phone. He disrupts my sleep repeatedly. Is that worse than not knowing where he was, if he was alive or dead? Does it matter when he drives off at 3 am if he’s going for tacos or going to deliver MDMA?
It does to me. It does to law enforcement. These days are numbered.
“Wake up, son. We need to talk.”
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