I am in the most hateful, bitter, black heart mood. I’ve been stuck in this shit show, downward spiral since waking yesterday morning. I’m typing this while what is commonly referenced as ‘easy listening’ music gently lilts through this early a.m. insomnia. It’s a blend of piano solos, classic Sinatra, and standard elevator soft pop. I want to take a hammer to my head but I’m waiting for the best song to kick in to do so.
How did I get here you may ask. I ask the very same and I have no specific, isolated reason for this petty petulance and tantrum. And let me assure you this is indeed a tantrum as by the looks I received in the workplace yesterday when my mouth disengaged a spew of ‘goddamnits’ and ‘f bombs’ probably better suited to ground troops in a war zone.
But this is a war zone. My war. My zone; my psyche running rampant internally trying to put out one emotional fire while yet another slowly simmers waiting for just the right moment to blaze and burn my brain hot with all the baggage I carry. I don’t think I can recall…no, wait. Yes, I can recall a time when my thoughts were free and clear but that time seems to recede, fade, slip further away from me as the months turn into years.
How many years has it been since the split. Exactly seven. Shouldn’t things, and by “things” I mean all the niceties that define a well-lived life, shouldn’t that all be present and accounted for at this time? I have a good job, nice paycheck, and a roof over my head with space to hang yet one more flea market antique etching. Yet I am literally hanging on for dear life. Or some life; maybe it is not so dear. And maybe that is the source of this isolation shit stew. It’s over. All over, my friends. I’m on the back side of fifty and scared shitless. I don’t have a path, a plan, or a guide for what is yet to come.
But then life laughs at plans, really; I learned that lesson the hard way. Life doesn’t really give a shit that you purchased VERSACE dinner napkins at Neiman’s LAST CALL because the color would look so fabulous as the sun’s last ray of orange gold slips over the mountaintop. That view. That mountaintop that would be framed from the patio doors of our Palm Springs’ retirement 2nd home. Sigh. Not happening.
I came home from work yesterday, sipped a glass of moderately priced wine, and was in bed with headphones by 7:00pm. I took two Advil PMS, and a half Xanax; one glass of wine mellowed the sparkle dust astral cushion I sailed away on. While groggy I am now awake for the new day. I think the key to surviving this dawn is one of pattern and routine; I will do laundry, clean house, and shop for groceries. I will go to the gym. The curmudgeon switch will flip eventually and this darkness will wrap itself in better tissue somewhere between expensive silk pocket squares and last season’s cashmere sweaters. I have no real problems. Just unreal ones.