Paralyzed By The Process

Do you think an author, say a writer, thinks it out and then basically knows more or less where he is going with the story he is writing?

Or do you think he is getting to know the characters and thinking of them as he is writing, not knowing where he is going, and then sees where his loose thoughts take him. It gets cleaned up later to make a story. Because I think thats more like it. But I think also a lot of people out there live as if they know the story or have an idea. Sometimes I say “I can't be accountable for the shit that comes out of my mouth” and it makes the person laugh, sure, but part of that really resonates with me. I never know where I am going. I am completely unable to basically “plan” certain parts of my life that I think not only do other people have more control over themselves, but I feel I am really lacking, like I SHOULD be able to grab hold of something.

Ever since a kid I've felt this way and I go from one hypothesis to the next during my phases of life and discovery. For a long time I attributed it to being an only child and I still basically do, but maybe its more than that. By brain has all of this knowledge and there is this certain responsibility that society has engrained in us that the knowledge is what you need ...to succeed.

But that doesn’t work for me. I KNOW--yet I cant bring myself to take certain steps.

Charlie wants to get from point A to point B. Through years of education, I know a general guideline for that. Charlie needs to do x, then x, then x... he should arrive at B.

So a friend needs advice, and I tell him, “Oh yeah, thats like fucking
Charlie. Basically, you gotta do x, then x, then x.” And I am all self satisfied. Look what a big help I was!

Yet when it comes down to me I don’t do the x's. I know what they are. It's like ...I guess I am just not to the point in my life that point B is so important it warrants the x's. I will fucking change my attitude on B (a form of regression I think) to avoid the x's.

Other times I find myself in very responsible situations and I ask myself “How did I get here??” as if I had nothing to do with it. Somehow through all the shit (other alphabet letters like W or A) that I have been focusing on, I've also managed to somehow add enough of the x's that I've gotten somewhere.

And I look around, like, “Shit! What do I do now?!” I have arrived at this point...and it never feels satisfying. Like it's not this “I-have-arrived” feeling; the “Yes! Score! I have reached by goal, point B!”

Fuck no! It's like, there are always more points looming on the horizon. And I feel like so many of them are decided by other forces than myself.

But I didn’t decide this. I didn’t chose to be this. I just am.

I think therefore I am. . .Where the fuck am I going with this?

I think I had some vague point* (agh, fucking word!) at the beginning of this. Something about how I feel a certain amount of non control for my aimlessness and that in itself is a weakness.

I was brushing my teeth and I directed myself to go into the computer room and type. Something will come out. It's been too long since you’ve expressed yourself, Rayna.

And I think my hypothesis whas that other folks have (a purpose, a point)...well, let me give an example.

An event happens that is worthy within itself, or sets into actions other events that bring up thoughts and somewhere along that journey a person decides that they need to share that. Whether anyone sees it or not. They blog it.

But me, I just...I mostly just, I mostly feel lost almost all of the time.

This has been the major theme of my 20s. Searching for something but feeling so hopelessly lost.

I always said, “I ain’t bringing that shit with me into my 30s. Thats fucking nonsense, that shit has got to stay back there where it sort of belongs.”

So I knew I'd end up here, where i am, with the grandparents in this house. In Irving Texas doing (or attempting to do) some kind of profession.

And for a the first year I was like “I'm HOME” that was huge for me! I felt at home, finally.

But I've been noticing I don’t really feel that way anymore, now that I am “used” to it. Accustomed to it.

I am ready to go but I don’t know where. I needed desperately to GO which I did in the past. I went (place to place across the west).

And I know that no matter the moments I received, experiences that added to who I am, beautiful poignant fucking things that happened, I never really FOUND whatever the fuck it is I felt like I needed to find.

And I guess that is basically L_I_F_E-- coping with these crazy feelings.

Maybe thats why people cling to certain religions. (And my that I mean anything they are basically indoctrinated in, whether it be a lifestyle choice like drinking or church going and the gospel, hallelujah!

This is getting too fucking deep (Like my buddy Rene says); beyond my ability to articulate.

I feel like time is moving so slow this summer. It's obscenely slow and painful like swimming in quicksand. I feel trapped. Among other things, lonely etc. I feel fucking paralyzed. In the past, I would DO SOMETHING, go for a walk, ride a bike, etc. just move my fucking body.

But today I can't move. I just can't move to save my life. It's not even a slovenly, lazy day where I watch TV shows all day and gorge on Nutella crackers. No, screw that, I am literally paralyzed.

I’ve been battling this all week or longer. But it was strong this week and I've earnestly tried distracting myself to shake myself out of it. But this morning I woke up to my alarm and it was raining outside. I felt so peaceful; one the rare times I felt rested. I wander into the kitchen to see Gma and Gpa at the table and Gpa smiles so I smile back and he teases me a sleepy head. But it wasn’t just the normal Gpa teasing.

“Welcome here. This is reality. This is whats real. This is whats going on. Come out of your fog. The other dimension isn’t real.”

….and I was so touched. I was deeply touched by that. Still am, tears form as I type.

I am eating breakfast across from Gpa with the annoying fucking kitchen TV blaring in the background, really so loud it's the foreground too. I hate that fucking TV because I hate it and I hate morning TV. I don't hate mornings, its not that. I just hate morning TV!

So, Gpa talking to whoever, if anyone, is listening as per usual. Talking about his COPD and trying to understand it. Same thing. So much that this week I printed out a long document with graphics complete with intermittent quiz questions about COPD. As I watched him toying with the edges of the papers, I heard myself saying to him “Gpa, what does the D stand for? What does the D stand for?”

-well I now know and thank you so much because its part of 3 things: emphysema, asthma, and chronic bronchitis

“Yes, that right but what does the D of COPD stand for?” He scans the papers, doesn’t know the answer. I point it out. Top sentence. He reads it.

-Oh, disease. “Yeah”---pause--- “disease.”

I proceed to tell him about how you don’t get rid of a disease. A disease is a permanent condition. I told him to look at me in the eyes. I said, “It doesn’t get better Gpa, you might have good days, some better than others. But this gets worse and worse. Until...”

He nods, thinking about what I am saying. But being the cute pie Gpa that he is...He is saying things like “Until I croak, ok I get it, well ....”

and then he is bargaining with himself. He's lived a long time he says, he recognizes now, these past few weeks, that this is the end that it will be this that causes it. He says Sally has COPD, so does some other people he knows or knew. Then he says, “But thats all I know-thats all I know- I had to work, had to make a life. I couldn’t just not work. I tried to do other stuff besides printing (the fumes are what caused all of this) I never did smoke. Wasn’t a smoker. I wasn’t a drinker. I just worked. I tried to pick cotton”

Laughing, Gma chimes in, “That lasted one day!”

Gpa says, “It lasted one hour!” He quickly found out that was not for him.

The conversation goes back to COPD and the ailments and symptoms; the lifestyle... Straying toward talk of medication and what he take that would make it better, make it go away...

I told him “Gpa, look at me. There is nothing else. You are already taking it. We are already doing what we can. This is it.”

COPD is the 3^rd leading cause of death. I mentioned that at some point during the day.

He mentioned how insufferable it would be to die that way, being chocked out of oxygen, not able to breathe. And I acknowledged him, saying “I know I have seen it first hand” and he nodded asking “Oh, you have?” but I didn’t answer. Of course I have, so has he. The night my mom died. Like a fish out of water gasping for air. Do they remember? Maybe. But I will never bring it up again, not the specific graphics. Not the images. Not the image of me closing her eyes. No, I mention only enough and only at times to prove a point.

So Gpa knows. He can continue pretending every few days not to have the first clue what COPD is and whats wrong with him. But he knows. He doesn’t even have dementia is the thing. Thats the thing I am seeing that makes this so hard.

In my understanding, a person with dementia is completely out there at times that they don’t know whats going on. He knows though. What I am seeing is a psychological coping mechanism.

And I guess, maybe thats why I have been paralyzed. But I only just realized that. I didn't start out wanting to write a blog about my Gpa's COPD or even about my paralyzing feelings as of late.

I didn’t know where it would go. I only know it now that I am here. I could have talked about the lesbian at the waxing salon and those funny stories. Or the plants I worked on today in the garden. Or the dog and her cute antics.

Earlier, when I was showering, I felt like I needed a reason to feel like a slug. Like a garbage ridden slug. For a moment, I blamed it on Wes. Because he called me today and we talked for the first time in a long time and many months after I informed him that, in the future, I don’t wish to call myself his “friend”

But its not Wes' fault. He was pleasant and jovial. Sure, my stomach knots up. Sure, I feel the rejection come back. Wes' past rejection mixing with the most recent rejection blending together to create some hybrid feeling of not being good enough.

But really, its no one's fault. Not even my own I guess.

I blame myself a lot.

I blame myself, in part, because of things …. knowing about x, then x, then x. 

Midnight Radio