There’s a building where an island was before. That sums up my new reality. Change sucks. My personality tends to on the lazy side. Lots of reasons or rationalizations. Years of realizations actually. Too much surface illusion without understanding the underlying conditions. There has always been the nagging comment about being more of a dreamer than worker. Guilty. A large part of it is being Bipolar. One side benefit is being a creative thinker. That and a cup of coffee leaves you looking throough job listings. There are exercises and methods to change my behaviors learned over years of coping. It took 4 tries and 3 doctors before the stars aligned to get the right meds from the right person. Ones that won’t suddenly stop working. That’s the driving fear the mentally ill face every day. Years of chaos disappears. Or receed into the background. Hope and relief. With the full knowledge that peace has a time limit before it all starts over.
The knowledge that comes with the lack of fear doesn’t eliminate the bad days. It makes the occasional days worse. Being fully aware what is happening and sometimes the why. Consist awareness strips away the illusions of created by magical thinking. Which makes right now so difficult. There’s a struggle between the old master of short term thinking and my amater skills at long term planning. I’ve found an employment opportunity in an environment that will set me up for failure. It is diametrically opposed to the awareness of who and what I am. There have been too many jobs filled with dread of walking in the door. A windowless metal box in different clothing. People doing jobs that leave them empty. A landscape littered with broken dreams. Dreams have become the source of all my writing. Until a year ago I started calling myself a writer. Someone who the has the compulsion to write. It is my way of of navigating the world. A successful author refer to herself has an editor not a writer. So very true. The burst of inspiration is the easy part. Molding into something readable, that’s the hard part Last year I fully accepted fully the title of writer.
In big letters, I am a writer flowed from my pen. Again and again. Joy burst a the deep emotional well. One that was always at the edge of my sight. This time I was not afraid to turn and see it. It had always been there. Waiting. Indifferent in it own way. That was the first step on another path. From the people that have liked my post enough to folllow me, many have gone through the same moment of clarity. And stood where I am now. Wondering what to do next. the old well trod path is so inviting in its comforting ease. The known. the accepted way. No silence to the answer of the defining question of life. What do you do for a living? A question asked out of habit. Not any real desire to process the answer. An assumption an standard answer to fit into a comfortable hole. A piece of the who of the image they have built without conscious thought.
The world demands certain realities that increase age and responsibilities. A limiting of possibilities. Youthful dreams are critically analysed or carelessly discarded. Studies have quantified our behavior. any raise will be used to buy more stuff. Anything the financial gurus say are easier when you aren’t living paycheck to paycheck. Selling hope for a good retirement, the permanency of home or weight loss is a good living. How many books are in your bookcases gathering dust before the next garage sale? The Tiny house movement is driven by stagnant wages has much as an ideological decision. Personally I feel those houses surrounded by seas of green are best maintained with goats or sheep. Owning a house is a lifestyle choice. One I’ve rejected. That small amount of freedom still has costs attached. One of which is causing much stress in my current situation.
My children are center of gravity in my life. Whatever else can be said of me, being a bad parent isn’t one. In part it has been a way to deal with the contentious relationship with my father. I can’t use the word dad with a man who is still a mystery. forgiveness has laid to rest much of my resentment and anger. But I’m my father’s son. Seeing my kids every morning has become a habit and many times the best part of many bad days. Which is now in direct conflict with the location of the shelter and economic destitution. Gas has become a barrier not easily bridged. The past year has created a seismic shift in the discover phase of understanding.
There’s a an aspect of all this that can’t be ignored. Early in life Robert Heinlein cast a spell on me. His later writing matched an undiscovered major tenet of my teenage self. The words about sexuality, religion and how his characters explained their actions appealed to me. It fostered a sense of specialness in a boy caught in the eye of a dysfunctional hurricane created by an abusive mentally ill father. A flawed man god a boy wanted to love but couldn’t trust him enough to. This is my statement on human behavior. One I stand by. We do things because it makes feel good about ourselves. The universe does revolve around us. Yes children and family are rationalized in the tight circle. Look at the bumper stickers on the back of minivans. Cynical? Selfish? Self centered? Been accused of all of them. According to the people at the mission, god fixes all. Does helping others fulfill a basic need that have? How’s is that different from a universality of core beliefs of religions systems and the people doing the same? Place. Country. Culture.
So here I sit looking at the ugliest building in an otherwise charming downtown writing on my computer about my thoughts. Practicing writing skills that in years to come will make me cringe. Circular. Wandering. Or missing the mark completely. If there’s not a little fear when putting my words out for the world to see, I’m doing it wrong.