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Jun. 8th, 2022 09:02 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
morgue_n I've been writing a shit ton. The progress feels great.
Since I wrote last, my grandfather, the union patriarch who lifted up his whole holler, died. He died in the nursing home of old age. It was a slow, meandering spiral downward into dementia. By the time he passed, he was unrecognizable. He'd grown a godly beard, but his body was emaciated and weak. Spindly. His eyes didn't see us. To be honest, when he died, it was a relief. It was so hard watching him deteriorate.
I got a part time job at the local library. I shelve books in my day. I work with 50-60 year old ladies who cluck and tut around. All of them are mother hens. We have very little in common, outside of a love of reading. We certainly don't read the same books. Regardless, they're kind, so I like them.
I've been single for almost 2 years now. I haven't had sex in a year. I've barely even flirted. Idk what's going on with me.
I got my teaching license, finally. Now, I just have to start the process of hunting for a new job outside of the states. But: do I wait another year? Or do I go buckwild trying to get a new gig for the winter, throwing it all over to luck? We'll see what happens, I guess.
I'm staying on top of my depression. I'm doing great for someone who isn't going to therapy. I'd love to go to therapy, but I don't have insurance and I really can't throw money around like that right now. Besides, all of my problems are caused by me being stuck here. If I can get out, everything else will fall into place.
The first paragraph of Moby Dick comes to mind:
Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off—then, I account it high time tozz get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball.
Since I wrote last, my grandfather, the union patriarch who lifted up his whole holler, died. He died in the nursing home of old age. It was a slow, meandering spiral downward into dementia. By the time he passed, he was unrecognizable. He'd grown a godly beard, but his body was emaciated and weak. Spindly. His eyes didn't see us. To be honest, when he died, it was a relief. It was so hard watching him deteriorate.
I got a part time job at the local library. I shelve books in my day. I work with 50-60 year old ladies who cluck and tut around. All of them are mother hens. We have very little in common, outside of a love of reading. We certainly don't read the same books. Regardless, they're kind, so I like them.
I've been single for almost 2 years now. I haven't had sex in a year. I've barely even flirted. Idk what's going on with me.
I got my teaching license, finally. Now, I just have to start the process of hunting for a new job outside of the states. But: do I wait another year? Or do I go buckwild trying to get a new gig for the winter, throwing it all over to luck? We'll see what happens, I guess.
I'm staying on top of my depression. I'm doing great for someone who isn't going to therapy. I'd love to go to therapy, but I don't have insurance and I really can't throw money around like that right now. Besides, all of my problems are caused by me being stuck here. If I can get out, everything else will fall into place.
The first paragraph of Moby Dick comes to mind:
Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off—then, I account it high time tozz get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball.
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Date: 2022-06-09 01:12 pm (UTC)I'm glad to see you're back, though. And I hope for you the ability to head off into the sunset somewhere desirable arrives quickly. Depression is never fun and it's good to hear you've got it handled.