Sleep Is For The Young

This goes without saying as I look at the photo I took on my IPhone; I look tired as fuck. I think the unintended sacrifice of being an adult is understanding that most of the time, sleep becomes more of a privilege than a right – at least according to your body. If the stress of your existence is high, your body punishes you for lack of self-care by having your sleep cycle all screwed up.

Fixing such a situation would require several visits to the hospital to visit doctors who will feed me the usual answers; I’m too fat, I eat bad and I don’t take care of myself. Since lamenting your struggles gets seen as looking for a pity party, playing a victim and other such dismissives, the lack of acknowledgement about your problems becomes a survival tool for life.

While you may protect yourself from the social label of being a weakling, you are also blending your feelings of action into feelings of inaction which leads you to never fix the problem at hand, thus the cycle of sleep continues. I cannot claim to have at hand a solution to my problem, nor do I feel like I have the energy to put my mind to fixing it.

The minute I think about myself, consider myself, or even take account of my physical being, a distraction comes into play; as I am in the process of selling my parents house, trying to find a new place to live and live temporarily in this apartment, I find myself playing helicopter parent alot.

If I were to consider cooking a meal, even a microwave one (which is generally not good for you), I get a call that people who are handling my air conditioner repair won’t make the appointment I had set because other jobs have taken higher priority. While that is happening, I have to coordinate repairs to the apartment that never got addressed before I came in two months ago.

While this is happening, I am battling the creeping notion that my parents house may not get sold due to the high price and the fact that several things that need to be repaired don’t match up to the high price the real estate firm has set.

When this much is swimming through your soul, the idea of sleep seems irrelevant; the body gets to thinking that you, whether its good for you or not, should keep yourself awake for the next disaster to arrive or a follow-up to the current one you are in now. This is not the same as say reliving one’s time in Vietnam (I’m watching the Vietnam War by Ken Burns on Netflix). but it feels like it.

Since I am going to be up, watching a documentary about other people’s tragedies seems the logical response. That and it’s really time I clean my apartment.

What To Do On A Sunday

It’s almost 12pm.

Not as hot as it was last weekend and yet I still choose to stay inside. I’ll make a point of after lunch taking a stroll outside and still down in front of the lake. I have no particular reason to do it other than just to get out of the house and to get the hell out of my own shit for a minute.

I have a nice location, I gotta start taking advantage of it.

Today Is The 4th July And I Don’t Know What To Celebrate

I recognize this seems silly given that this is the day we generally celebrate our nation’s independence. As African-Americans, we could easily dismiss this holiday given how our culture is slighted alot of the time in this country. I, on the other hand, have a different problem that goes beyond whether or not to celebrate, but what to celebrate.

I can see the comments now:

“Celebrate being alive you ungrateful fuck!”

“First world problems”

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

Generally the third type of comment, which has variations, is meant to suggest that another person within the female side of the sexual spectrum could provide me with joy that I am lacking these days. Not only do I find that insulting to women, but I find women don’t necessarily like being crutches to men who are still figuring things out.

Back to the point.

This day is simply another holiday; the meaning behind it seems more of an option as time goes on rather than a requirement. If under our current government we suddenly in years to come become required to celebrate it whether we want to or not, they will have to contend with those such as myself who can’t find anything to celebrate on those days or do not know what to celebrate on those days.

Yes, I could celebrate the concept of being a free nation and yet nothing is exactly free; we pay to live in places we only spend a few hours in because we have to spend a few hours a day working to make sure we have money to pay for living space we spend a few hours in. That cycle is mandatory in our country as a societal rule and yet seems very much wrong.

I ask again, what I am supposed to celebrate?

The fact I have the day off from work? Days go by so fast that even holiday feel like really long extensions of that one hour lunch you take at work.

Just a few minutes ago I finished my laundry, which I managed to complete before the day crowd of individuals would blow their anger out on me for using all the dryers. That I believe is something to celebrate, especially if you live in an apartment like mine.

 

 

 

The “I Have Outgrown Black Men/Women” Narrative

Full disclosure – I am black.

I get that there are many a man on my side of the color spectrum that have traits less than desirable traits. Question; If you could look deep enough into any man, or woman, can you sit there and tell me that you couldn’t find those same stereotypes? (unemployed, criminal record, etc). It’s easy to date a small percentage of the population that feel as people who look like you are lesser than you, it’s harder to widen the population you deal with and seek those people who would like you for you.

This narrative, which I believe is dangerous, leads people to believe that if you change the color of the individual, the flaws are less and perfection is guaranteed. Bullshit. Some people can’t hide their flaws, some hide them until they get someone comfortable with the surface version of them; some hide them until someone is too far deep into the relationship to emotionally leave.

Either way, people are complicated all the same.

Reverting Inward

I witnessed someone, who I know through social media, go through a bit of what appeared to be a meltdown. Her last post of the day stated she did not want responses or anyone to talk to her really. When a person decides to revert inward, the action is not an anti-social one; The action itself is meant to be an unintended knee-jerk reaction to pressures and anxieties one is going through.

Since I have my own set of concerns and worries, I can identify with the need to do this.

This time was different however.

I just don’t think I want to be responsible, due to my concern I have, for having someone relive everything that has led them to the point they are at just to know whats going on. I’m getting anxiety just thinking about it.

All I can do is pray at this point.

Sunrises

For the past couple of months, I have been living in an apartment with a lakeside view which was really the only reason I think I took it. The floors seem to wrap, some of the wood in the corner of the entrances to some of the rooms easily fall off and the bathroom stands (which are made of glass) don’t seem very stable. In addition, the door to the oven doesn’t stay closed and the sink leaks (for which I put a pan underneath it).

This is a temporary setup. I intend to get another place. I will however miss this sunrise.

For years I didn’t care for the sun which is understandable when you consider that I used to work the night shift. Now that I work a regular full-time job, I actually enjoy seeing a sunrise for a change. Now if I could just work on actually enjoying the day fully without always feeling something was missing.

Life Don’t Live Here Anymore

Do you know what I felt after my mother and father both passed away in the last two years? Nothing. I cried, yes, but I felt an embarrassment. As an African-American male with challenges always around every corner, you would think someone dying would be the least of one’s concerns; simply put, you are told the world is shit and doesn’t give a damn about you because of your color and that if you die, it’s a blessing and you are away from all that is horrid.

This is backwards; the only way to feel free, the only way to be truly a human being as a black man, or any human on this earth, is to no longer breath. If this logic is so backwards why do I myself feel, as a former associate once described me, like I’m dead inside? Why do my emotions arrive and leave like a bus?

How is that at 39 years of age, soon to be 40, I still get the fuck up every day despite having what would be considered a monotone existence? People like me who tend to go through such tragedies exist in a space where almost nothing feels real or important. Despite the terrible things going on in America, I cannot push for a feeling, whether anger or apathy, to anything; it’s simply just “meh”.

It’s a selfish attitude you may think; you could run with that and see it as a failing. Let’s imagine that someone close to you, maybe not even a parent died, is your immediate reaction to be with others? If it is, let’s see what happens when the entire evening is spent talking about what happened, how you expect to go on, etc. After awhile, the joy is removed from the air and the conversation becomes rather uncomfortable. Despair is like a stench that doesn’t leave right away and has the unfortunate ability to clear the room of any human that dislike leaving the banal, safe zone of surface conversation.

You would probably think this is what people expect; you come in, briefly talk about what happened and receive condolences and other such brief exchanges and then get to the business of what happened in the rest of the world this week. The anxiety, the sadness and the melancholy you feel is sent to the deepest part of your soul locked away until a more appropriate time has come; mainly when you are in the house that your loved ones lived in and you eat, sleep and cry in the scary silence in the aftermath of death.

I can tell you I did eat and sleep in my parents house; but I did not cry. I did not cry in the Oscar-Winning fashion that has brought so many iconic stars to prominence. I cried, if you could even call it that, in the way Steve Carrell’s character in Last Flag Flying; briefly and sometimes out of nowhere. Once I finished, I went back to feeling nothing.

One of the reasons I started this blog was to somehow write about my lack of feelings and how I need to get them back and why I fight against that. I also feel that while therapy, which I attend weekly, has helped some – it is not enough. Writing is personal, which I hate to get and often feel as if my words get lost in a windmill.

I hope with this post that I make a point of trying to change that.