Jumbo

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.