Mom, Don't Read This One

(This is a pre-script, written after, as a post-script, but posted here, first. Know that my days often start badly and the act of writing about it helps. Today I am sharing this short journey with you. This is the first hour of my day; not my physical day, my emotional day.)

I am without motivation as I awake. I don't feel; I feel nothing. I am a void in the space time continuum. I awoke thinking to myself, why am I here? What is the point of all this? As I lay abed, looking at the pills and the wheelchair and the urine jug, thinking about the struggle to dress, the barriers to even making a simple cup of coffee, Keureg and all, I just want it to be over. This listlessness, this malaise, this ennui is not quite enough to stop me from writing, but it is enough to make me wonder why I am bothering to do so.

Today, this morning, at this moment, I just wonder... why? I look ahead of me and I see no road; I look behind me and I see no result. I sit alone in my apartment, awaiting my own demise, wishing it would arrive, dreading its arrival. I am without purpose. In a time gone by, I would be long dead, lost to the predators seeking the old and wounded. I would be adrift on the iceberg, awaiting the cold, finding solace and comfort as its chill crept in, depriving my brain of oxygen, lulling me into endless sleep.

Now before you run for your phone or your jump to your keyboard, before you jump into action to tell me that you are worried about me, before you express some deep and wailing anguish, telling me that most people feel this way at some time or another, to tell me I shouldn't feel this way or that I have every reason to feel bad, to say that I should just get off my ass and get moving, read this. Some days I feel shitty; most days start like this.

Do not offer sympathy; it's pointless. As my father often said "You can find sympathy listed in the dictionary, between shit and syphilis." He was a man small prone to sympathy, yet in this failing there was also dim gleam of wisdom. Sympathy lacks effect. It minimizes, diverting from the issue with false homily. Sympathy does not help; it is an act of pity, an attempt to express emotion without truly understanding how I feel. Don't try to talk me out of my feelings; they are mine and I plan on holding on to them for a while. Soon all I will have is what I feel.

Some of you will be unable to stave off the temptation to post or email, others will fight an heroic battle and in the end will lose, succumbing to that innate need we all have, the need to offer the dreaded "advice". In the literary field, I prefer the quote from H. G. Wells; "No passion in the world is equal to the passion to alter someone else's draft." We all feel the need to comment, to proffer guidance, even me, especially me. I am the most afflicted of this, feeling the need to spew sagacity without considering whether or not there is requirement or request. As my brother said recently, "we share the same genes; they demand that we offer advice."

The day itself will move me to action. I have things to do. Jimmy will be here this afternoon; I will once again pester him with excess management. I am going out tonight; I will once again dazzle my peers with my treasure trove of useless knowledge. I have work to do, reports to write, stuff and stuff. The mere act of writing, the simple expression of how I feel is enough to move me forward, enough to get me somewhere away from this endless well of self-pity, shedding the cloak of morosity and donning the cloth of life. The mere act of thinking, or making my mind focus elsewhere, of putting thought into keystrokes is enough to lift me away from the edge of darkness. Perhaps, just perhaps, I will find some purpose in my day.