dream state

it exists, somewhere. the person i want. the person you want. it may be imagined. it may be unrealistic. it may be an always moving target. it might be a dream you never fall asleep to. the person i want blogs every week. finishes getting an acca certification, an economics degree, and an english one. travels more. doesn't need a job. plays video games like i still have time for them. 

anyways. that person exists only as a concept. the real me is too tired to move from the couch because 4 hours a night of sleep and a stress filled job renders me exhausted. i will get up soon though. there are dishes to do.

i used to dream about being a programmer. I hated it. not all my dreams have to know what is best.

value proposition

if, as the common english idiom states, "a picture is worth a thousand words," and, concurrently, that "a formula is worth a thousand pictures," as put forth by seminal computer scientist Edsger Dijkstra, then it demonstrates that some of the wealthiest people on earth, historically, were Albert Einstein, and the Wabanaki Confederacy. at this point, dear reader, one might be inquiring as to what these two have in common, if anything at all. to that, the present author simply states that i have yet to find a consistent quip that combines the two. alas, this too leaves me, much like Einstein, searching for a unified field.

impetus

 it had been bad for awhile. i knew it deep down. i had for months. 

so much of my life has been spent fighting for some semblance of control. carving out a space that's mine. my clothes. my media. my time. my time, my time, my time. decades of none of those - all orchestrated instead by those who occupied bodies outside of mine, minds who thought they knew better.

years of fighting has let me make a bit. i still feel the pull of obligations; socially, familial, work and school based. go above and beyond or fail. 

on my fourth counselor now. and it's finally one of my own impetus. i made the choice to go on meds, and what meds to go on. i chose the counselor, when and where and how often. never before had these options been granted to me. the hospital was dangled over my head like a threat. the doctors and counselors were all chosen by authority. referrals or recommendations from powers that be. my psychiatrist was eventually picked up by my mom, seemingly so she could try to find one more way to watch over me, devour my sense of self.

i haven't really had a bad counselor before, and i bare much of the blame for being so resistant a client. but i never really had a counselor before. they were all counselors who ostensibly were for me - they spoke to me, met with me, worked with me - but were for my parents. their fears. their comfort. their idea of how i should be. i wasn't angry enough, happy enough, good enough, enough. 

now i do. i have a conselor for me. and in that, i've found myself more open than ever, willing to challenge myself and be vulnerable. in 4 sessions i've gotten more out of this than 4 years of any previous counselor. i feel safe. i know nothing i say will escape, will somehow be found out. my parents are unaware of this existence, this part of my life, the kind of lack of awareness i've only ever wanted.

it had been bad for awhile, my depression. it had been bad for most of my life, the lack of having myself, my own impetus. but for an hour a week i carve out some time for me, by me. then i go home and hug my wife, who only ever wants to make time for me, make me feel like me, feel like i can take up space. 

linger

other than relationships - like, you know, partners, - you haven't had a one-to-one friend meeting since your trip to Asia, and even that had such a massive context with it (in SE Asia) that it never felt "on the spot." you haven't shot the shit with a friend, just one friend, over coffee for such a long time you struggle to remember when you last did. you haven't gone over to someone's house just to "hang." like many social skills, you wonder if the atrophy has rendered it forever flawed. 

he invites you and another for cigars and whiskey but the 'another' can't make it. just you and him. cigars and whiskey. socially distanced in a garage with the door open. he's kind of an intense dude, you don't agree on everything. you'd find a way out of it if it wasn't for the fact that you need to get out of the house a bit, your wife will be at work anyways, and you can't lie in bed catatonic with sadness if you're smoking a cigar and drinking whiskey.

it's only 80 minutes or so, certainly not a long commitment, but it flies by. conversation is natural. you think for a second how much you've missed this. you think for many seconds how remarkable it is you've done this. it took the kind of support and love only she could offer. she talks you down from thinking you can't do anything, that you'll make a fool of yourself. you feel happy after the chat, look forward to it again. it's cliche and unremarkable but you remember that as flawed as your last counselor was, just literally talking and using human language often lifted your spirits a bit. but then there's a different voice that starts to talk in your head about how you got lucky, you'll run out of stuff to talk about next time, you'll bore him like you'll eventually bore your wife like like like. who knows? that voice will always linger. much like the taste of cigar in your mouth the next day. but in the cold with a sip of whiskey? it all actually felt right.

making up for makeup

there's makeup around your eyes, she said it was ethereal. it is. it's bright and airy and with your big blue glasses on looks like something you used to think about when watching youtube makeup videos. in your leggings and longer hair you could almost not be a man. you remember when you first grew out a beard and hated it but then liked how it filled out your face when you had just a little bit of it, when it was shaggy but no beard, like 5-7 days into no shaving. but now it's gone and you like that too. you hate it as well though. hate seeing the pimples now, but hate the hair itching when it's there. maybe there is nothing to like, nothing to define. your looks and clothes are a moving target. there's always something to hate. you think about buying new jeans but they're expensive. you think your red pants are still too long and straight. you don't know what phases fashion is going through, you're not dating so you're not plugged into that anymore. the makeup is almost gone now, and you're in your normal work clothes carrying a briefcase, looking like some adult working a boring corporate job. now there's a look you will never, ever like.