Garbage can, not a garbage can’t?

My view of days. Sometimes it’s an awesome NYC subway sculpture. Some days it’s ugly life chewing your undeserving fat ass.

I self-deprecate. It’s what I do. I drink unhealthy level of Diet Coke every day, I have unruly hair, I have a crooked spine and I self-deprecate. Some things are just hard wired.

And that’s not a good thing.

I’ve always had at  least a modicum of self-hatred. In fourth grade, I wrote a story for school about an anorexic teenager who tried to demolish her own body. The poor student teacher just trying to get through the semester was not at all prepared. I only ever remember feeling like this.

It’s absurd. Of course, you know,  mental illness always make such logical sense. So, I talk about it. My feelings and woe-is-mes of hurt and doubt and insecurity. Ad nauseum. And then some god damn more if anyone around me wasn’t listening to my last hour’s diatribe.

Pathetic. Ain’t nobody trying to hear that, as the kids say. They also say #pawg and #thot but I’m not trying to hear that. Or maybe I’m just too old and saw too many grunge and ska bands that I can’t hear anything anymore. #toomanyhorns

From my perspective, I’m just giving others full disclosure. Fair warning. Full acknowledgement. Yes. I know what I’m not. Fully aware. Fully perceiving the flaws. I want you to know that I know what a mess I am.

Except I’m really not. I don’t think that’s hubris or ego or id. I really am doing pretty ok.

From other’s perspectives, as I’m coming to understand, it doesn’t come across as my own humble reckoning. It comes across as my own incredibly frustrating jackassery.

I never thought about it that way. “Shocking, ” the selfish girl said in affected horror as she complained again about her own patently false or just irrelevant bullshit.

Surely, I can’t speak as to what it’s like to deal with my constant, constant, CONSTANT, sad sack blustering and snuffling. But I imagine it like this. Someone you care about is banging their head against a wall. Your wall. They seem okay with it. The banging doesn’t change speed or intensity. Just keeps banging. Eventually, blood starts to appear on their forehead and your wall.

They don’t want to do that, they say. It hurts, they say. All they want to do is stop, they say. You, caring, want to help. You steer them away from the wall. Distract them with conversation and yellow cake. But, they keep going back to the wall.

You suggest a solution to stop. They bang. You offer a different solution. They bang. You offer yet a different one. They bang.

All the while, complaining about their headache and blurry vision. Their dizziness and ringing ears. Blood in their eyes. If it’s me, it would take all my power to not scream-

“Then stop banging your fucking head! If you don’t want to, if you want to stop, then knock it the fuck off already!!!”

I say that as the one, forehead bruised, from constant head banging.

This is why people brush their hands of the thing and walk away from the whole damn table.  It’s tiring and soul-sucking and time-wasting and worst of all just really fucking boring.

Time for me to stop. Ridiculous, needy, constant-attention and reinforcement-craving. Fucking stop it.

My family has been sick lately. Actual problems. Emergency rooms and hospital stays and surgical consultation stays. Those are things to get pissed and anxious and to cry and bang your head about. Not because you’re a little chubbier than you’d like. Have another glass of wine and a cookie and shut the fuck up.

Not sure what all the fucks are about in this one. Too many to give? None left? Maybe just the perfect amount?

A few days ago, before the plague his my family, I managed something special. No, not just pristinely organizing a Lego room. I did do that, and it was awesome.

See. I am doing ok.

But more impressive, I chose to be happy. I was having a shit day. Feel like a miserable, worthless letch. But I chose to stop. And I did. And I made myself feel better. It was unexpected and incredible. I want to do it again. A few days later I fell apart again and was thankfully caught and held. He is too good a man. He needs to do less catching. Less steering away from walls. More writing and pictures and music and art and food and adventure.

So, moving ahead. Get my people out of hospital and better. Next, get me better by choosing better things to see and write and think. I’m a writer. Words matter. I want mine to do so along with my thoughts. So I need to make them good ones. The very choice, best ones.

For now, No more head banging. Except in the car.

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