Rapeseed

Back in the day, consent was not a thing. By extension, we are all children of rape. (Great, great, great grandchildren of rape.)

And there is nothing great about that.

I read an article (probably in the New York Times magazine) in recent years that all the suffering and trauma your ancestors went through are in your blood. If your clan has endured generations of tragedy, it's always with you.

In the early 80's, I prolifically read Ni Kuang, one of the most influential authors in Hong Kong who was known for sci-fi sagas. In a particular collection of short stories, the first one featured was titled "Rape".

I was a tween or in my early teens, and immediately captivated.

The rape victim displays your expected PTSD telltale signs: withdrawal, jumpiness, depression...

As the story unfolds, we learn that there has been no physical rape, but a rape of the mind. Constant, daily, inescapable rape that is how society imposes on and fucks with you.

At the time, I snickered. Oh, please. Drama queen. 

As of late, as I feel suffocated and trapped at my current job, hating most minutes of the day, resenting having to do things I don't want to do, don't agree with, don't enjoy doing, cursing that my time is not mine - my life is not mine... Looking forward to 5 o'clock each day, looking forward to the weekend... Until weekends don't even bring joy anymore... Concluding this is no way to live...

Yes, when you have no control over what shit gets shoved your way, what your body must do, even as it aches and burns, muscles inflamed and torn, your being stretched as if racked in medieval times, spread thinner and thinner until you're certain you are going to break, but you don't break, you subsist and writhe on... One more day. And another, and another...

Indeed. I feel raped. Over and over.

Ni Kuang was right all along.

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I joke with RJ that sobriety is not all that it's cracked up to be.

Most days are dreary with a stifling sense of despair.

On Mother's Day I reached out to a widow, thinking it might benefit her. There are actually several widows in my life now. But only one is a stranger.

It became obvious that the widow did not need to hear from me. I needed her more that she did me.

I knew her husband but had never met her. He was a popular guy. Big heart, family man, great sense of humor. His departure from the earthly realm was sudden and shook the community.

The theme of my senior prom was "The Best is Yet to Come". I fully believed it at the time.

Now I am sure the best is all behind me, and I have somehow missed it.

My date and I were the last to leave the dance floor. We had one last slow dance while the chaperones looked on. I wanted time to flow slower. It felt like we were the only two people in the world.

Back in the limousine, on a high, I suggested that we drive around until dawn.

Shyly, my date murmured, "The car is only paid through 1 a.m."

I felt defeated then. One of what I considered the early pangs of "poverty".

My parents were not rich but they indulged us with a lifestyle that was the envy of most of our peers. I realize now that I got to equate someone showering me with material things with love.

Honestly I am not sure how I can be happy if we cannot afford to go out, dine out, travel, etc. Sure, I always could stop and smell the roses. That was my thing: to find beauty in everyday life. But in the long run, everyday life is lackluster. It is not a unique experience to need to get away from the mundane, is it?

With my ex Hulmes, one of our favorite things to do was to get lost. This was long before the internet and smart phones. We'd literally start driving and didn't care where we'd end up. It was such a carefree, wild existence. Oh, the sweet state of being young and oblivious.

Later in life it was only when we were away from home, when we could forget our troubles, that we could be happy. I started realizing that, when we ran away from problems, the problems were always there when we returned.

I have been getting antsy again lately, decades since those woeful days with Hulmes.

Part of the predicament is the blurred lines between work and home life, the obliteration of boundaries, since working from home due to the pandemic. My mental health has greatly suffered. My home is no longer my sanctuary.

Even with a loving, supportive husband, it has been a struggle. I feel ever so lonely. More lonely than ever. You'd think that a lifelong introvert would be good at being alone. I am. It is not the same thing.

When I was a kid the loneliest moment was going to bed alone, and pining for my primary caretaker to be done with her day.

I recently realized that I still dread going to bed alone. I'd tell RJ, "It's lonely in there," pointing to the bedroom. And it's worse now that I don't drink. Because with a "night cap", who cares? I'd be out like a light.

I have been sober for only roughly three weeks. I've feared that, when one of us stops drinking, our relationship is going to be altered.

Are we teetering? Maybe I am teetering. I don't know anything anymore. Probably never did.

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The past six months I have busied myself in an unprecedented manner and yet not been very productive. I find myself chastising myself for consuming content instead of creating it.

There is no fantasy, no escape, no happy place. 

Been many things I should have blogged about. All seemed pointless. 

Some months ago I found out that my (maternal) grandfather was not a pushover. Due to his suicide, I might have pigeonholed him with stereotypes. He was no helpless wimp, no wallflower. He stood up for his friends. Like a scene from a movie starring De Niro and Pacino. He confronted some mob boss, all on his own. Mano a mano.

So that's something.

I learned that my (paternal) grandfather had been a sailor at some point. I had known only that he was a fisherman.

Turned out both my grandfathers had been fishermen at some point.

Last weekend I went chasing fatayer (when it was introduced to me, eight years ago, it was spelled "fatayir"). No matter. It was not fatayer I'd missed, but my Palestinian friends. I found my fatayer. They were not nearly as delicious as I remembered them.

I miss having friends.

I recall two instances of bonding with someone by bursting into song at the same time. There is laughter. That utmost absurdity of a real life musical moment that's genuine and fierce. And comical.

I miss bonding with people.

Most people act like the pandemic is over, that the virus doesn't exist, or is no longer deadly. 

This isolation has changed me. But I feel blameless, and there is no one to blame. I feel like I have been voluntarily imprisoning myself. With no end in sight.

I quit drinking about three weeks ago. To make a good story, I am going to say I quit on Cinco de Mayo. How ironic, no? It actually might have been on the 4th. 

Actually probably shouldn't say "quit" because I will probably get back to it.

JD used to say "When you take away the booze, all that remains is depression".

I feel numb. Everyday I walk and feel like a moping zombie. When I was bipolar at least there were some ups along with the downs. Now it's a flatline.

I feel that I should go to a support group. But what am I supporting?

I've had so many labels for so long. I feel utterly lost.

I thought being sober I'd magically feel healthier. I do not.

Had a conversation with IA, my best friend from high school, and learned that her brother, who I am going to call PW, had been diagnosed to be on the spectrum. (I may have blogged about them before and it is near impossible to search what I might have called them prior.)

The news put me in a dark place for a few days. I am self-diagnosed on the spectrum. PW and I used to be friends. I valued his friendship A LOT. It was like a bleeding wound calling for my attention again.

I wrote IA a letter. She responded with more facts and questions. I promised to write another letter to address. And never did.

I still might get to it.

How did I become such a giant waste of life?

When I have thought about doing something I love for a living, I have thought, perhaps I could write. But. If you write one bestseller, it doesn't stop there. You've got to write another, and another. Did you know that?

My favorite author is Agatha Christie. I used to think it was special that I loved her. Turned out no. She's outsold by only the Bible and Shakespeare. So she must be a lot of folks' favorite author.

Agatha Christie has written 80 crime mysteries plus plays and short stories. Let's say her career spanned 6 decades. That is A LOT of books.

I watched a documentary on Christie. I think she'd get an idea for a story, then pour her time and energy for a few months dedicated to finishing the book and getting it published. Then she's set for a year. Then it starts all over again.

Even if I was talented and had endless ideas (I am not lazy I swear!) that sounds exhausting. I dunno.

When studying the habits of successful people I am forced to face that I do not share these habits. Of course, they'll tell you that habits can be cultivated.

I dunno. That sounds exhausting.

Oh, the thought of being doomed to a lifetime of ordinary!

I tell JR time and again that I pity the one who has to write my obituary. There will be nothing to say.

No friends. No family. No achievements.

JR has reminded me, "There need not be an obituary."

Every week is a roller coaster of confidence and diffidence. "I can do this! I can still make a change!" to "I can't do this! I am fucked."

Henry Ford is credited to have said:
"Whether you think you can, or you think you can't – you're right."

I am a big girl. I don't need rescuing. But I am not sure I can save myself.