Albeit I ran a few errands which were inane in nature, (one being Bed Bath & Beyond to buy a dish rack because I forgot to ask if there was a dishwasher when I moved in here), these are the first words I’ve been able to utter on this article since I wrote the headline this morning — a good six hours ago. I feel pretty stuck in all ways.
I haven’t lived without a dishwasher since 2000. Nice going, Art.
One of the first things I do every morning — because everyone on medium.com says you gotta read more than you write — is read. I’m trying to get through a ton of articles on medium.com itself, as there is a lot of good advice. Unfortunately, I first landed on an article that had to do with how long it takes to get over a lover after a breakup. Basically, the article said it takes half as many years as you were together to “get over it”.
What is he doing, what is he thinking, is he seeing someone new, does he think about me at all?
Just last week, I declared to myself that I was over it. That I was in the final stage of grief (acceptance). But right at about that very time, memories of him flooded into my every thought. They’ve not stopped for the most part. I ask the same question over and over: “how could you do this to me?” Sometimes I get teary. This stops me in my tracks, and I instinctively go to the place where I feel the safest: my bed. I then rehash the events, discipline myself in very bad ways in my mind, take accountability for my actions and lack thereof, and get myself back up in a somnambulistic state. Do things by instinct: piss, look for something to eat, survey the mess in front of me, and then have a drink because it’s all so overwhelming.
This is just one of many areas where I’m stuck. When one says “money can’t buy happiness”, don’t believe them. I’ve been from rags to riches many, many times over, and I much prefer the riches, thank you.
Being stuck is living with plaster walls. Who knew it would be so difficult to hang pieces without destroying your security deposit? So now I’m in the process of repair and redo with nothing to show for it. My house/apartment/casita, whatever it’s called, is made up of pathways between piles of shit because there’s no shelving to speak of in this place.
“Dishrack.” I had to buy one. There are so many. The minutes I spent exploring the features of each seemed like hours. Even my confidence in making simple consumer buying decisions has been jeopardized. But please don’t let Bed Bath & Beyond go the way of Sears.
Today, a resume I’ve put out there received a pulse. Now, I have to rehearse for an online interview where there’s really no one on the other end of the line. You’re just recording, visually, responses to posed questions.
Two weeks later: see how I’m stuck? I’ve done nothing, and the interview led me to the path of “thanks, but…”. The pathways in my house/apartment/casita remain. At least the dishes are done, and the laundry is folded. I don’t get much done in these four walls.
Last week, I had to drive to El Paso for my monthly visit with my probation officer. It’s an eight-hour round-trip drive with much of nothing to look at unless you love looking at the barren mountains of the Northern Chihuahuan Desert, and the occasional oasis that the Rio Grande provides to fields of pecan and pistachio trees, and green chile. While I listen to those stations on the lower end of the FM radio dial when I can get a signal (NPR, classical music, etc.), I’m not hearing. I’m thinking of my ex-lover. What is he doing, what is he thinking, is he seeing someone new, does he think about me at all?
I’m not at the top of my game in this writing-thing. But I probably have at least twenty half-baked starts that I’ve simply not finished because I’ve been so mired in the past. Perhaps that is a good place to start.