Dear Dementia
Dear Dementia,
I thought I had a great idea for a blog called "Dear Dementia" where I would ramble about my fears surrounding it. Have no idea if I even have dementia, or early Alzheimer's or anything like that, but I have been struggling lately with keeping focused. Struggling with holding onto the idea that my life has some purpose, some reason other than Grace to continue.
Because truly, when I am not with Grace, my life feels empty, without purpose. I have all this stuff and a job and a cat, but I am sinking deeper into debt every day and I honestly don't know how to turn that around. I have all this talent...
But I laugh at that word. Talent. Potential. A Gift! Yes, it's true. I know this to be true. I know that I have the capability to produce beautiful unique things in the world. I have done so in the past. Yet at the moment I feel paralyzed. Suffocated by the weight of all the stuff I have. Stuff for making art that I am not using, but cannot let go of. Stuff for making music that I am not using, but cannot let go of. And the simplest of all, the writing. The easiest setup in the world, really, writing is.
Yet it is still a struggle to force myself to sit down and write. To get over the 'too much trouble' meme that repeats in my ear. To not let myself get distracted by social media, or binge streaming. To just give myself time to sit down and write. Even now I feel....unsettled....uneasy......like perhaps there is something more productive I could be doing. Something that might actually lead to making some money while sharing my 'Gift' with the world.
So is it another form of depression? I suffered from a form of manic-depression. Never really been diagnosed by a professional, that just seemed too...redundant. In the early 2000's I saw a psychologist who prescribed an anti-anxiety medication, Celexa, that worked wonders. Weaned myself off it after a few years, but now I'm wondering if it's back. Wondering if I need something stronger than the supplements I've been taking instead.
Or if it's just some early form of dementia, or Alzheimer's. One of those maybe. Those of us with depression understand that the idea of going to see someone about it just seems useless. And shameful.
Because what if I'm really just a useless slacker who can't get his shit together, and never has and never will?
See, when I'm with Grace, I let her lead. I become her willing companion/driver on shopping trips. I am happy to be her beast of burden. Happy to take all the pictures. Because she is such a pleasure to be with, and I am truly happy just to be with her. And I make her laugh, give her compliments, display such obvious joy in her company that she gets a lift from it as well.
But this, of course, is just feeding into the syndrome.
It turns out there's already blogs called Dear Dementia and Dear Alzheimer's. There are books. There are websites. There are Facebook pages. I shouldn't be surprised, it's such an obvious title. Such an obvious way of talking about it. I am not originating anything new in the world with this. It's the same-old same-old really and that's part of the despair. The feeling of despair, the feeling that rather than being a talented individual with something new to say I'm really just an average person with an over-active imagination and an inability to utilize it, to capitalize on it, to follow through in any meaningful way.
Thus the despair. That's when I start to think it would be better for me to find some way of 'accidentally' dying so that Grace will get insurance to pay off this mounting debt, which just seems to suck the joy out of life.
It's not like I have a satisfying job. I really am disappointed that I have to go to work every day. I would retire if it wasn't for this massive pit of debt that I have to fill. This need to support an ex-wife who is not working because she is trying to get her own business off the ground, but she's been trying for years now without success. I only agreed to paying her because if I hadn't she would likely have fought the divorce and sued me and taken even more after an emotionally exhausting litigation of some sort.
If I didn't have that obligation, and I could convince Grace that retirement in Thailand is our best option for a decent life. I'd be making preparations to retire right now. Right this very minute.
But I get up and drink coffee and shower and dress and ride the damn train into DTLA every weekday morning, and sit in the noisy office that's either too hot or too cold and try to convince myself I'm doing something useful, when the company is a conglomeration of individuals who are all very protective of their little spheres of influence and I cannot really get anything meaningful done there. I've been elected to 'mind the copy paper', because the office doesn't have an admin person. But they are paying me what is a ridiculous amount of money for what I'm able to do for them. But I need that ridiculous amount of money if I'm ever going to turn this debt thing around without resorting to suicide.
Luckily, no one reads these posts, so I'm safe. I can confess pretty much anything here without fear, because, as with everything else, my ramblings are just those of an average person, no one special, with nothing new to say, no new way to say it.
The only source of joy in my life is Grace.
I thought I had a great idea for a blog called "Dear Dementia" where I would ramble about my fears surrounding it. Have no idea if I even have dementia, or early Alzheimer's or anything like that, but I have been struggling lately with keeping focused. Struggling with holding onto the idea that my life has some purpose, some reason other than Grace to continue.
Because truly, when I am not with Grace, my life feels empty, without purpose. I have all this stuff and a job and a cat, but I am sinking deeper into debt every day and I honestly don't know how to turn that around. I have all this talent...
But I laugh at that word. Talent. Potential. A Gift! Yes, it's true. I know this to be true. I know that I have the capability to produce beautiful unique things in the world. I have done so in the past. Yet at the moment I feel paralyzed. Suffocated by the weight of all the stuff I have. Stuff for making art that I am not using, but cannot let go of. Stuff for making music that I am not using, but cannot let go of. And the simplest of all, the writing. The easiest setup in the world, really, writing is.
Yet it is still a struggle to force myself to sit down and write. To get over the 'too much trouble' meme that repeats in my ear. To not let myself get distracted by social media, or binge streaming. To just give myself time to sit down and write. Even now I feel....unsettled....uneasy......like perhaps there is something more productive I could be doing. Something that might actually lead to making some money while sharing my 'Gift' with the world.
So is it another form of depression? I suffered from a form of manic-depression. Never really been diagnosed by a professional, that just seemed too...redundant. In the early 2000's I saw a psychologist who prescribed an anti-anxiety medication, Celexa, that worked wonders. Weaned myself off it after a few years, but now I'm wondering if it's back. Wondering if I need something stronger than the supplements I've been taking instead.
Or if it's just some early form of dementia, or Alzheimer's. One of those maybe. Those of us with depression understand that the idea of going to see someone about it just seems useless. And shameful.
Because what if I'm really just a useless slacker who can't get his shit together, and never has and never will?
See, when I'm with Grace, I let her lead. I become her willing companion/driver on shopping trips. I am happy to be her beast of burden. Happy to take all the pictures. Because she is such a pleasure to be with, and I am truly happy just to be with her. And I make her laugh, give her compliments, display such obvious joy in her company that she gets a lift from it as well.
But this, of course, is just feeding into the syndrome.
It turns out there's already blogs called Dear Dementia and Dear Alzheimer's. There are books. There are websites. There are Facebook pages. I shouldn't be surprised, it's such an obvious title. Such an obvious way of talking about it. I am not originating anything new in the world with this. It's the same-old same-old really and that's part of the despair. The feeling of despair, the feeling that rather than being a talented individual with something new to say I'm really just an average person with an over-active imagination and an inability to utilize it, to capitalize on it, to follow through in any meaningful way.
Thus the despair. That's when I start to think it would be better for me to find some way of 'accidentally' dying so that Grace will get insurance to pay off this mounting debt, which just seems to suck the joy out of life.
It's not like I have a satisfying job. I really am disappointed that I have to go to work every day. I would retire if it wasn't for this massive pit of debt that I have to fill. This need to support an ex-wife who is not working because she is trying to get her own business off the ground, but she's been trying for years now without success. I only agreed to paying her because if I hadn't she would likely have fought the divorce and sued me and taken even more after an emotionally exhausting litigation of some sort.
If I didn't have that obligation, and I could convince Grace that retirement in Thailand is our best option for a decent life. I'd be making preparations to retire right now. Right this very minute.
But I get up and drink coffee and shower and dress and ride the damn train into DTLA every weekday morning, and sit in the noisy office that's either too hot or too cold and try to convince myself I'm doing something useful, when the company is a conglomeration of individuals who are all very protective of their little spheres of influence and I cannot really get anything meaningful done there. I've been elected to 'mind the copy paper', because the office doesn't have an admin person. But they are paying me what is a ridiculous amount of money for what I'm able to do for them. But I need that ridiculous amount of money if I'm ever going to turn this debt thing around without resorting to suicide.
Luckily, no one reads these posts, so I'm safe. I can confess pretty much anything here without fear, because, as with everything else, my ramblings are just those of an average person, no one special, with nothing new to say, no new way to say it.
The only source of joy in my life is Grace.
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