Drunken Rat

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A while ago, for a number of situational reasons, I decided that I had had enough of living in the least communicative life I had ever occupied. It consisted mostly of me running around like a drunken rat during work hours, and letting unspoken things dominate my personal life. I became a high-functioning nervous wreck, and so the concept of vulnerability was appealing to me: put it out there, and let it go. Regardless of the outcome, at least you put it out there. What an appealing concept after years of insomnia and motor skill deterioration.

Like a drug addict that’s found religion, I’ve taken it too far. I hate this new “vulnerable” me in equal bizarro measure that I hated the old “stoic” me. I went from living on pins and needs, to sulking around with dark circles under my eyes. Vulnerability is just a one-sided conversation, which leaves me feeling embarrassed and exposed. Apparently, I’m not good at either. I should have known better, because that’s the problem with binary solutions, one way or another, they each get their pound of flesh.

A Younger Me

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Middle age comes on hard. People like to say it’s a state of mind. I don’t disagree, but there are elements that are unavoidable, regardless of your mindset.

I often times think about what I would say to a younger “me”. It’s seems like such a waste that despite all of the mistakes I’ve made, they will have to be repeated by the human race ad infinitum. A part of the life experience, I suppose. But if that were actually true, I wouldn’t be jealous of my younger self. I keep hoping that something from that old version of me rubs off on the person I’ve become.

Giving up the Ghost

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From November, 2015:

What am I missing? What am I not seeing? I’m in a club so full of smoke that I can’t distinguish things 2 feet in front of me. It’s a long time before I realize that this is strategic. Again, what am I missing?

I’m not sure how I ended up in this place. But I’m with someone that I used to love. In fact, I probably loved her more than I’ve ever loved anyone, besides my daughter. But instead of love, I feel empty. I can’t tell if it’s because we’ve drifted too far apart, or if it’s the smoke, or the drinks, or if I’ve become something unrecognizable, but I can’t get back to where I was. Yet every time I look at her, I know why I once felt that way.

What I’m left with is one constant phrase: if you love something, let it go. Perhaps one the hardest things in life, is realizing that someone you loved for so long, is a stranger.

I met her in the hallway of a bar: I was twenty, she was nineteen; she’s Czech, and I’m American. That night should have been all of it. Except that it continued for years. Except that we grew to love each other. It was my fault when it ended, but in a situation that was far from clean. That was a long time ago now. And after all this time, the only thing holding us together are those shared memories.