I don’t know what I’m doing here
Not on this page, planet, maybe even this room. I’m hot all the time and this is summer. We think my home office is one of several random additions to a house that is somewhere between 120 and 160 years old. The trees on the property are plentiful and it’s a slog for my partner to get anything to grow in all this shade. I only help with the garden when pressed. I’m a priss in the outdoors. I can soak in its beauty but one mosquito and I’d rather just admire it all from behind glass.
The point is the house stays cool until temperatures get extreme. If it’s 80 outside, it’s 15 degrees cooler inside. Like a root cellar or recently-decommissioned walk-in refrigerator.
Except for this office, which juts out, and gets the only direct sunlight of any room. So what am I doing in the hottest room?
I’m toasty I think because of the medications I’m on. I’m not sure which one is doing it. Maybe it’s the Xyrem, the one that lets me sleep at night. Maybe it’s the Wellbutrin, a recent addition that is supposed to help me find meaning in this meaningless thing I’m doing right now. I’ve been hot for years, so it can’t be the culprit. It could be the literally-laughable (if you’re my sleep doctor) micro dose of Adderall that takes the edge off my narcolepsy triggers and keeps me hyper-productive in a way I could never imagine before treatment.
I told my therapist last week that I was sick of the bullshit. I think that’s why I’m here. I know somewhere underneath the quarantine and profoundly-pathetic disappointments of leaders and icons and champions of industry, I’m happy. I just have to get that guy running things again. Back online. If he managed to maintain happiness for a couple years, long before diagnosis and treatment, he should be able to go kick happiness ass now.
Like anyone, I can do anything. Many things are close to impossible for some, but given my ethnicity and resources, I’m the only asshole in my way. First order of business is making sure I’m not the asshole in anyone else’s way. Because I’ve been that for a couple people. Most apologies have been met with dead static, but a few have garnered a thanks but we still ain’t buddies. Google relieves the worst of the guilt. They’re few, but fine. Doing great (I tell myself). Own that I was dead weight but don’t embrace it. Don’t hang that shit around my neck. Fuck shame. I’m not holding it over any reverse scenarios.
Anyway, I have advantages beyond being pasty and middle class.
My biggest advantage is that because I’m incapable of normal sleep and wake cycles, everything about the going-on-four-years of circadian perfection is artificial. My normalcy is 90% in bottles. My house could be on fire, and I will still sleep like a baby (in a medically-induced coma). I’m fresh as a goddam daisy every morning through no effort of my own. I can work 14 hours to a point of mental and physical collapse and seldom have to worry about giving out. I can do that shit everyday for months and only piss off my dogs and partner. In this particular case, fake is better than the real thing.
So, I’m here to be real, I guess.
Strike that. I’m here to get real. I’m still at least half full of shit.
It’s a process.
Being capable of bullshit isn’t required in life, but it’s recommended. The bullshit works, in a lot of ways, but everyone has to get sick of it. You have to get to a point of saturation where you say, okay, I need some of it, but do I need this much?
I know I’m not the only one fed up with the potential volume of bullshit. I know because of the people who do with perfection, the thing I’m stumbling through now. Saying one true thing, one true thing at a time. Anyone I hear say one true thing, cancels out the hours and days and weeks of worthless dribble.