Well, I’m back.

I feel like after such a long absence, there should be a more dramatic opening or something. But there’s not. No fanfares, no trumpets, not even a lone tin whistle. It’s been two months or thereabouts since my last entry, and for the moment, I feel like the long forgotten Catholic of my youth making his confession for the first time in years. “It has been ‘x’ years since my last confession” etc..

In the keeping of such a mood, I have some things to confess about why I’ve been away for so long. And not just from the blog. I’ve neglected friends, emails, many sites, many forums, and quite a few people.

Also in keeping with the mood of a confessional, I’ll be asking peoples forgiveness for being such a reclusive shit. And as the J-man said, those who’s sins you forgive, are forgiven. Too bad not everyone I know is the forgiving sort. Ah well.

As someone who respects both privacy and anonymity, there’s a certain amount I feel comfortable discussing in a blog, and obviously somethings I will not discuss. But I’ll be as free and frank as I can here.

It’s been a rough two months, in a number of different ways. And in case anyone is wondering, my father has not died in the interim. We do not yet know whether or not the cancer is in remission. But that’s obviously been a factor in the trouble of the last few weeks.

I’ve learned something about myself too, which is good I suppose, even if it’s not laudable. I don’t think anyone likes learning about the more unpleasant aspects of themselves. What I’ve learned is that for many years, I’ve had a tendency to blame work or the job for the failure of friendships, relationships, etc… as the job forced me into extended periods of isolation. Working long hours, and all the stress that that entails.

I know now that that is not entirely true. My job was a crutch. Something I leaned on for support, during times when I was stressed by other things in my life. By creating stress in my job, and managing it, it gave me the comforting illusion that I was dealing with my stress, with my problems. In actual fact, I was not. The original problem, the original stress, usually remained.

Except when the source of that stress was something like a relationship. In those cases, my overworked and extended isolation more often than not drove the other person away, and with the source of stress gone, I was free to relax at work.

It sounds much more machialvellian when I write it out like that in a cool and logical manner. It really wasn’t. I had no idea I was doing it at the time. And I’m sure I have hurt a lot of people in my life by doing this.

Since last year, I haven’t had any work. I’ve been looking for work, but to be honest, not as hard as I could have. I’ve spent a lot of my time at home with my father, obviously. And it has been in the last two months in particular that I’ve noticed my tendency to withdraw and isolate myself as a way of trying to cope with stress and difficulty.

I used to throw myself into creative pursuits, too. Like writing. Writing a blog entry, for example. Writing an email. Writing posts, or speeches, or stories. I have an unfinished story on my desktop, still labeled “Dead Inside.doc” which I haven’t touched since I emailed it to LilAngel for comments so long ago.

Everything I’ve tried to write has been dark and depressing, and served only to depress me further.

My father is ignoring his medical advice, has started drinking heavily again, and has decided he doesn’t want any more treatment if the tumor is not in remission.
My mother is … not well.
And it is weighing down on me with all the smothering suffocation of heavy responsibility that I will be … what? Alone? The patriarch of the family? Responsible for my kin? Responsible for me, my life, and all the fucked up things that happen to me? None of those things. Not really.

The death of my parents (and I make no bones about it, they are both dying) lends a certain shape to my own remaining years. A dull prostrate form lying out before me. And I fear I can see its end. It is a disquieting thing to see. I’ve been close to death a few times in my life (three off hand I can think of) but they were sudden and unexpected, with the outcome turning on momentary chance. This has the air of inevitability. And I do not want to face those remaining years alone.

I do not like giving voice to these thoughts, aside from their pomposity and melodrama. They are internal - private - and I am unsure how universally common they are, and so unsure how they may be understood. Truthfully, I do not like even giving them an internal voice, but even I have to sleep and dream.

With no work to distract me, I have had more time to brood, to dwell on self-destructive lines of thought. And I have sought refuge in other passtimes, work substitutes if you like.

I’ve gone back to college, for example. (A mature student, naturally, at the English Open University.) I have begun work on a new degree (Biotechnology and genetics will be the next big thing, circa 2010 – 2012 in the same way the internet was the last big thing circa 1996 – 2002) and I’ve been flying through books on the human genome.

I’ve punished myself on the training for the marathon, and messed up my knees and heels more than once.

I’ve taken to gardening, and the garden at the back of the house has not looked as good in years, though I am unsatisfied with it, and may destroy it utterly and build it up again from scratch.

I have surrounded myself with detritus from my youth, stuff I had either planned to throw away or forgotten I possessed.
I don’t find any “surcease of sorrow” as Poe would say, in any of these things. They occupy the silent times; they prevent the mind from turning on itself like Ourobourus.

I have not been out of the house much. I have not spoken to friends on the phone. I have not seen friends in the flesh. I went out once when my brother flew home for his birthday and it was not a good day for me.

I’m reminded of a phrase (which in English would mean)
There is no colour in my sky* so I must learn to paint.

( * The translation may read as “world”. It’s a contextual thing.)

And I guess that’s what I’m doing now. I haven’t fixed anything of what was wrong. I haven’t found anything that will make things better. I’m still looking at times ahead, and knowing they will be hard. But I’m done with the idelness. I’ve done as much as I can do, while being on my own. I will begin to paint again. My friends are the colours on the canvas of my life.

And if that isn’t the title of a crappy self-help book, it probably should be.



posted by Manchild at 8:03 PM