[1034] Sackboy

At some point, I just have to start this damn thing.

I mentioned to my supervisor that I analogize my work life to the amounts of proverbial shit I have to eat. Groups, while making me eat considerably less, still lets some shit rest on each bite. In an ideal situation, much as when I’m eating actual food, there’s no shit in it. I don’t mean trace amounts because we’re all covered in poo particles. I mean a noticeable, unnecessary smell, flavor, and consistency that poisons the fundamental nature of the meal. Driving 3 hours round trip in a truck, for 10 months now, to conduct a remote role, that’s shit. The shit consists of the sentiment, “Well, you’re technically a hybrid-role counselor. Yes, and you’re technically an out-patient clinic who happens to admit people you shouldn’t and betrays your pill-mill nature with some regularity.

I also recently spoke to my reoccurring dream of being, less “trapped” in a mall or big house, but sometimes I’ll find myself just looking for the exit, and I never find it. I have an idea of where it is, I speed walk my way to where I think I need to go, but then the hallway bends in a way I don’t recognize, or the stairs let me out to the wrong floor, or the final 50 feet extend and get bogged down with rows of obstruction.

My supervisor, in response to my shit-eating analogy said, “Well, nothing’s perfect, right?” I quickly retorted that I’m not after perfection, I just don’t want to eat shit. Whether I found the front door, or safely landed after jumping out of a window, I want to find the exit, and I’m irrationally trapped for what amounts to a lack of imagination or need to wake up.

A common sentiment from the people in Groups is about how they need the structure and accountability. I’m told fairly regularly that it’s appreciated when I, “call me on my shit.” The “shit” clients are referring to is the vague distance-building language they use to skirt past intentionally using a coping skill or engaging in self-care. It’s when they work themselves to death for people who don’t give a fuck about them and then they ask for a dose increase before trying to balance their day or setting a boundary. This is where I can never take credit for your sobriety, because a persistent boundary or a daily balanced practice are merely my suggestion after observation. You either do the work or not.

How do you obligate someone to the work of being their own source of structure and accountability? I implement literal accounting in mindfulness exercises. I hold my people to rules for how the group will be structured. You hold the line and wait. The longer you hold the line and wait, you get “institutionalized” psychologically. We’re the products of a lot of line-holders, healthily or unhealthily. It’s why I have a degree and nightmares in my 30s that I haven’t done my homework. It’s why most of the world, regardless of their health, status, or intelligence, is on some level paying the bills, staying alive, and using language that suggests no genuine desire to be a “leech.”

They’re much more fragile lines than we wish to believe. It’s only a decision away to violate a norm or create something with its own lines that challenges via its very existence. The trap people get into is believing they are establishing new norms or that they’ve created anything in the wake of their reaction to the current standard. To react, destroy, or protest is categorically different than building, protecting, and incorporating. One leaves you at the mercy or folly of what you’re reacting to. The other is filled with work and opportunities if only it can be recognized, maintained, and celebrated.

Work, in my experience, speaks for itself. I, pretty habitually, do as good if not the best job at whatever, at least in a professional context. I clean deeper when I’m scrubbing bathrooms. I’m efficient in my driving and notes. I manage time, people, and policy with ease. This keeps my name out of genuine contention about my value, for all it also conjures regarding my personality. I celebrate myself. I reward myself. I refuse to play along with nonsense when I don’t have to and I don’t lie to you or myself. I work to find the truth of the vagaries in my feelings and ambiguous nature of my motives. The blog, for the infinite amount of things it might say, will speak for itself when I’m done. I’m working.

I had a mild panic moment thinking about my spending. I almost forgot, at least bodily, that I’ve already done the math. When I did it again, I discovered that even including my bills for the rest of the year, all of my spending, driving, food, parking, shows, airfare, etc. amounts to just over one paycheck a month if I stay till the end of the year. If I radically dial back my spending, I’m still out of debt in 3.5 months. 98% of my debt is shows still to come, and my new computer. I, still, just don’t really care, even when my body wants to forget here and there.

I do feel trapped, which is nothing new. I’m trapped by the absurdities of my business relationships, the insurance fuckery and capitalism, and even the weather. A tornado blew away houses kinda like mine about 30 minutes away, so now I spend another $1,000 a year in insurance. I can’t make our therapist answer the phone or troubleshoot a login issue preventing us from moving forward to get empanelled with Medicaid and Medicare. I’m born to a country that doesn’t believe you should pay for anything related to health and goes out of its way to corrupt the systems that tried. Where’s the exit?

I suffocate on just immensely oppressive irony as well. You know how I’ll find a girlfriend? Get verbally and physically abusive. I’ll find someone willing to bail me out after I go to jail after we fight. I’ll find someone who in private will defend me and speak highly of how good and honest I am in how I contribute to working things out together. If I start gaslighting, the desire to have kids will overwhelm her. If I develop a drug habit, we’ll get a prime opportunity to discuss all we’ve overcome together. If I just cheat instead of look for a way to be open, she’ll cry that I’m not fucking her enough!

You have a lot of money? Cool, why don’t you use your position in life to back yourself into a corner that needs someone like me to prompt you to be mindful about how often you’re screaming at your loved ones. I hope your newfound peace and clarity will allow you to thrive. God knows I’m not working to open my pool, fixing up my side-project house, or getting together with my extended family that doesn’t try to eat each other alive.

My most panicked and desperate friends will occasionally reach out to me, either looking for solidarity of the sort I’m often unable to provide, or because they know, in fact, how I will respond and then that can be used as the pretext for lashing out. It’s very weird. I can tell they can’t tell they’re doing it, but in magnificent feats of irony, the once (for “fun”) time I might ask for help (or hell, lunch), it’s crickets, excuses, distracted distance, or inevitably wholesale silence if not outright banishment. It’s pretty crazy-making actually, and I think it speaks to why I’m so enthralled with compelling messy family depictions on TV. Do I really wanna be one of the Shameless characters? Fuck no. Do I want to be on the verge of death wandering about the ‘verse? (if you know, you know.) Again, fuck no.

We don’t see what we have. You might profess to want structure and accountability, but it’s baked into what you’re doing, or not, already. You have to look for it. You have to know what it sounds like and speak the truth of it into the world. If I carried on, you might get the impression I’m envious or jealous of the people I see living with relative blindness to the nature of their different privileges. I’m lucky enough to know it’s not about me or them though. We’re all plugged into the inescapable. There is no exit, and the task is to make peace with wandering around. You can wander with an abusive partner, all the money in the world, or with a series of habits that serve to distract, but you can’t not wander unless you choose to stop, set up camp, and draw a line.

I have a lot of lines. Probably more than can be accounted for, but they come through when I write. I’m not going to get caught up in lies. I can’t think straight, feel good, plan, stay organized, be righteously indignant, or care about literally anything if I can’t find as true an understanding of something as I might. You get up and arms about the issue of the day? I’ll keep asking the annoying question until you remove yourself from the reactive space. I think J.K. Rowling is running that program at present. I pay attention when my body crosses lines and explore why. I’m willing and practicing the habit of asking if new ones need to be created and if I’ve crossed one.

I’m not going to be pushed at work into a space where every time my phone goes off I feel stressed or performatively sigh. I’m not going to let my finances get lost in a sea of favors or sentimentality. My cats aren’t guaranteed a spot in my lap. Everything I’ve achieved so far, and plan to get in the future, has been me building the kind of environment in which I hope to thrive. I get to make the drives to my shows, I don’t “have to.” I get to build on my land. I get to play, read, and watch what I want as I please. My conversations about my business are about what meetings I can get invited to, not “If I had my own, I could…” I have my own, and I do.

There’s $700 sitting in my account that wasn’t there a month and a half ago. I’ve spoken with most of the surrounding probation departments (those people are incredibly hard to get on the phone.) I’m showing up on provider lists and getting called. The larger context is still a series of larger mouthfuls of shit, but there’s my miraculous unsullied seed waiting to sprout. The watering can, soil, air, and gardener are all covered in shit, but the work and the ideas that allow the seed to grow form the protective lines worth holding.

It's incredibly lonely, but not lonelier than playing dress-up and pretend. I can make peace with my missing perspective regarding the relationships I thought I was forging. I’ll run on the fumes of my spite until it kills me. It’s movie-magic that puts the whole crew or family on the same page. It’s fake. It’s not something to aspire to what you see on screen, anymore than it is to aspire to the cartoonish mythologies that plague pathological families and religious ideologies. You’re working regardless. Either to normalize shit-eating, sound-making (a lot like saying words, but not quite), and distancing from even the memory of what it takes to be an accountable world builder.

[1033] Stormtroopers

Today reached a stressful point. It did so because I didn't see it coming. I couldn't see it coming. There was no "one thing" that was definitely more annoying or catastrophic than normally happens each day. I even went above and beyond what I normally do on Thursdays and ate food between my block of groups that often leave me tense if not with a headache every week. But, it just didn't stop. I couldn't run my decompression pattern. I couldn't find a fucking moment to breathe. I find it incredible and fascinating that so much happens "all at once" like this to...test me? It's bizarre and too coincidental.

My baseline nature to want to attend to things or apply "fixes" was pushed too hard. Idiots at work who refuse to take responsibility for their shitty attendance and communication wait until precisely the moment I close out my last note to open a can of worms we'd been dancing around to get done for two weeks. My friend's car breaks down, can he take my recently gotten home truck again? My favorite tool which I immediately put to good use and started making plans for utilizing for other things as well? The one with 220,000 miles on it and just cost $1500 and 2 months to fix? Can he also get $50 because drug dealers don't take credit cards?

I've got childishly entitled clients on the brink of emotional collapse raring to lose it any given week. Nice enough people, decently hard-working people, selfish, normal childish and entitled people who will come to me about "my dose" as though it's my job to just continuously answer their every panicked thought at any hour of the day. I ignore most of that, to be sure, but it's another phone ring. It's a call for my attention. It's a passive aggressive comment locked and loaded for next week about what it is we aren't doing to help.

I've been told about 9 times over 3 weeks that a "had no reason to believe she was that chaotic" client was going to get signed up. She apparently wasn't receiving texts and emails, has the money and then doesn't, wants individual counseling, but then maybe for her kid who has massively improved from his traumatizing situation, but actually hasn't at all. At the end of the day I get to spend several hours at the least convenient time troubleshooting, quasi-counseling, caseworking, and I've not been paid. Then, I get to dodge panic attack paragraph texts as though I'm an emotional support animal on retainer.

Did you hear? I'm not just in debt, but courting more of it because I just don't care anymore. I want stuff. I want to go to shows. I want to build more on the land. I just don't care. I'm not likely to get fired, getting directly paid through my business, and haven't scratched the surface of where referrals can be generated from. I'm, inch by inch, day by day, on the verge of fundamentally shifting the priorities and nature of my problems in life. But, it's not here, and I'm still debt-ridden first-world poor, and the things I have walk an incredibly precarious line of functional instead of financial burden. What if I then played the imagination game?

You think my truck is insured for another driver? You think I trust my friend's parents to help him replace it because, you know, could he? The parents who fucked me on the house? What happens when the wobbly car-jerking issue with the Scion finds me in a wreck. It's begging for it. If 2 is 1 and 1 is none, I might have a solid half with my 3. I have a coffee van that doesn't reverse, a truck who picks a new thing to break every couple months, and a Scion with an as yet undiagnosed issue I'm genuinely gambling won't go catastrophically wrong on my frequent hours-long trips.

I didn't exactly forget that life is always coming with the next thing to charge you, but I felt it in a deeper way recently. I got home insurance, of course catastrophically expensive because my home isn't "normal" and abnormality, regardless of the actual value, risk, or practicality, means you get fucked for the invitation to play the insurance game. Add the utility bills, interest charge (you know because you got fucked on how much it cost to get your water back because the only person you know who can do it can't fucking figure out how to bill, record, or communicate to save his goddamn life). You don't pay down as large as you planned. You don't pay off like you planned. You can't take enough long showers to feel like they make up for yet another negative spiraling trend built into your financial picture.

Let's not forget though, I don't really care. Most people my age carried tens of thousands in debt, which they paid towards for years, mostly in interest, never paid it off or barely have paid it off, and they have mortgages, car payments, a few have kids, health issues, etc. I might spend $15K on 100 shows, yearly bills, a new computer, guitar, rolfing, building supplies and car repairs? Every 2 weeks I can pay off 10%. If I can get 10 more clients, 20%. I'm certainly impatient, but it's not an irrational perception of that impatience driving my decision making. I'm almost 35. I live in a fort in cousin-fuck Indiana. I live in a proto-fascist country. It's kinda time to live it up, especially if we're the new tornado-alley. (Oh man, that would have been such a cunty thing to nickname my ex when we were fighting.)

My licensed therapist is in some, probably emotionally abusive and awkward power dynamic with her husband, so when I need her to fix something related to login information or to help our insurance wranglers proceed down the lie of the "80-100" day process of getting empanelled, she just won't respond to me. She'll call Hussain and get panicky and ask him all sorts of shit he can't answer, won't even respond to a text of mine. Won't send me a picture and bio to advertise on the site. Talks about spending money she claims to not have to rent a building in town to hold sessions individually, but also confidently asserts how perfectly unable she is to handle the business end of things. I have back ups, but it's all so needlessly convoluted and always in the background nagging.

I want to be reliable. I want to "help" and "fix." I feel like I'm constantly trying to do my best and do more while the people around me are getting by. They're along for my ride. I created and threw the parties, they were happy to drink and fuck and puke on things and carry on right into the resentment for inviting them and locking them inside. I provide the platform, pay for the infrastructure, maintain the fighting and cheerleading spirit. You think anyone ever calls me with news about who they contacted or who might help in getting more referrals? Hussain, to be sure, but that's why he's the business partner. Have any resulted in us getting paid though? Well...

It doesn't matter how much I do, create, risk, build, or invite to join. It will never be enough. It will never be persuasive or indicate that it's worth a kind of investment and sacrifice that I've made so many fucking times for so much shit that hasn't panned out. LIke, I fucking own land that I've offered for people to live on for free lol. I'm fucking ridiculous. I've paid thousands to live on a fucking couch after getting fucked out of my affordable apartment! How am I not the most entitled and shitty fucking cunt on the planet? I never get help moving. I've spent most of my life begging for an extra hand or the recognition that I would put up with emotional abuse for the better part of a year after finding someone who actually cared to work alongside me.

There's a decent chance if I ever get particularly successful I just disappear. I'm sick of talking to your memes. I'm sick of "normal" conversation about the infinite list of things holding us back. I'm sick of politely engaging every iteration of sit-and-spin you can bring to your imagination. I know I'm fucking sick of it because I'm this fucking frustrated in spite of literally every week if not often each work day, someone tells me how much they appreciate what I do for them. The words feel empty. I gave such rousing encouragement to one of my people who I was so proud of, she nearly broke into tears. Professional courtesy, of course, dictates that we're not friends, and neither she nor I should exist in a mutually supportive context where we're getting the help or money we need to feel secure and grow versus being reduced to the cursed encouraging words.

I've been buying expensive black band T-shirts too. I don't want your branded bullshit from the jobs I work. I don't want to be buttoned up. The whole of my feelings in blogs are summarized by the collective works of the artists I enjoy and the creative energy they inspire. Maybe in 30 years they'll get special vintage status and I'll get to be even cooler than I already am, also for no one to care or notice lol. I have so much shit filled with so much potential fun and worthwhile consequences, but it only feels like it when I can cast a convoluted verbal spell that lays out the embedded vitriol and sabotaging forces. I have no reason beyond chaotic chance to believe I won't continue to get everything I want, provided I can keep it specific to things and experiences that merely cost money.

Do I want you to share my spirit? Do I want you to find the energy and the way forward no matter what? Do I want absolutely anything from you, and each time I allow myself to accidentally set some subconscious expectation delight in the inevitable let down?

I will always be fascinated by how many people wish to dress up as stormtroopers. I will always be baffled by how many wish to be a mere crew member on the starship Enterprise. People delight in the uniforms, soldier status, mythological families, and piety. I have always, always, looked at the hero as the thing to emulate. What is the main character doing, and why? Who supports them, and why? What is their obligation? What transcends their flaws? Who are people but nameless trudgers along micro-fascist environments. They're capitulators, persuadable, and predictable. They're not trying to be heroes, they're imbibing the reassuring feeling that someone or something will save them no matter what.

You fucking idiots. No, they won't.

[1032] Bullseye

 Again! I am quite tired, but less so than when I last tried to write. I think what put me over the edge for writing this time was watching the combat footage of the Nashville police clearing the school and shooting the shooter.

Power.

If you can conceive of it as a fluid instead of a solid, you won’t trap yourself under the same conversational patterns. Is the population capable of enacting laws to stop school shootings? It, like every question begging the reflexive and same responses, is framed incorrectly. It’s rooted in abstraction and obscurity. Those who ask what “we” or “people” can do aren’t wrestling with reality.

Do you have power?

I do. I prove it to myself every day. I have the power to write and speak the truth of what’s on my mind. I have the power to make myself feel better by doing so, going to shows, and recasting the things I do to occupy my time as opportunities more than financial or guilt-ridden burden. I call my Nazi Senator Braun a Nazi regularly. I vote, regardless of my “belief” about its efficacy, I know definitely not doing so is of worse consequence holistically. I create and build relationships. I listen to people testify to my good advice and encouragement. I feel capable of destroying at least as much as I might create.

I feel it. I practice it. I speak to it. I brag about it. I lay it bare to be scrutinized (ignored). I recognize when I’m hesitant to gain too much of it, and I watch as it shapes, most often for the worse, people I’ve admired. The conversation around power, in my observation, isn’t happening. Power is something relegated to the de facto consequences of Christo-fascist nationalism, ignorance, and fear.

I talk to 100 or more people regularly every week about the things they feel powerless to control. That doesn’t mean they don’t work. That doesn’t mean they don’t have dozens of things I’m excited and proud to hear about and discuss. Not a single person has used the word “powerful” to describe how they feel in service to their recovery or achieving goals. It’s not on their mind or tongue. It’s, of course, powerful to maintain goals, fight, take care of your family, honestly get a deeper handle on how your brain works and what the words you’re using are doing to you. But do they claim it? Do they feel it deep enough to celebrate and speak to it?

We’re culturally addicted, and it’s not to drugs. We’re addicted to abstract notions of how power manifests and how it can be used. We swing between extremes in self-serving narratives about abstract enemies while the knife in our heart continues to turn. Any sentence that starts with “guns” isn’t talking about guns. It’s a nonsense abstraction about “tyranny” or “rights.” It’s a fear for the killing potential, often realized regularly upon children, minorities, or the sad. You don’t know how to deal with your fear of guns or a fascist’s fear of everything. So, from either perspective, it’s all crazy, must be condemned, and no amount of violent coercive demonstration or law, let alone statistic, will be persuasive nor account for the broken heart of the issue.

To recognize the amount of power you have is to court madness. I’ve never been closer to empathizing with religious believers and why they need a god than the more I saw the impact of my power. If you don’t have a rooted “why” for your behavior, it defaults to “because I can.” You can lie, because to you, the ”greater truth” often becomes manifest in a more obvious and consequential way than you, or anyone you’ve been lying to, is going to bother to recognize. Is Trump in prison? Are any insurrectionist Senators being removed? Don’t you “keep the peace” and “pay the bills” by lying a thousand times a day about things big and small? Isn’t it “easier” to pretend that you have simple one-off feelings that aren’t important or “that big a deal” and aren’t worth exploring? You have the power to deny you exist at all.

Every kid will die. There’s literally a war this moment in which the rampant shelling of civilians in schools, hospitals, and homes is the strategy. It’s creeping up into “debatable” to some in the abstraction that is “The West” whether we should bother caring about all that, what with our clear and present series of errant death scenarios playing out at home. Don’t you see? Those in that conversation don’t care anymore about a concrete expression and demonstration of values in service to Ukraine than they do children here. The dance is the point. There’s nothing to win, only an obligation to perform, even as a ragged and exhausted zombie as every other voice collapses around you.

You don’t have power. I do. How’s that make you feel? Angry? Empty? You gonna “argue” with me about it? Your power is memes. Your power is silence. Your power is finding secret nobility in being a self-righteous exhausted do-gooder in service to your extremely personal ethic and cultivated awareness. Your power is to treat yourself as an abstraction at the whims of people like me. You can’t be my cheerleader when we don’t operate the same means of power. I can’t take your advice when your window to the world is coated in sticky fingerprints and stuck open just wide enough to fit a whisper through. I can’t trust and respect what you can’t recognize about yourself with regard to chaos or control. That’s why I have power, and you don’t.

School shooters are the visceral example of the thought process depicted above. You can’t encourage and empathize with their plight because you don’t operate within the horrid reality where they know how “obvious” and “easy” it is to exercise their destructive power, but you act, speak, and legislate otherwise. Those capable and willing to speak honestly about how fucked things are aren’t whispering and still never get heard. They’re screaming, pleading, and arguing articulately indefinitely, and you’re calling them “just the wind.” What is an “innocent child” in a psychological world that can’t acknowledge what a gun is? What is a world that can’t reckon with its fear and lack of control the gun represents?

Everyone has to die until all who are left no longer wish to continue killing themselves. That’s what we’re doing, always. That’s my opposition to the death penalty. It’s not because I can’t or won’t kill someone, it’s because I feel, deeply, just how many I could get a taste for killing. There are many things about me that could stand to die, but my hesitation to destroy someone forever shouldn’t be at the top of my list.

I have power and you don’t because I don’t rely on you as the primary sources of my power. I work to discover and recognize what I need. I maintain my license. You wait for me to act so you can perform a reaction. You look forward to what I have to say, right or wrong, because you’re not engaging with me; you have a fantasy where what I say and do gets situated for you to ogle like an expensive piece of art. Somewhere, you know “my” power isn’t mine at all. My work ethic demonstrates a matter-of-fact set of consequences, obligations, responsibilities, and points of awareness that you believe would drive you mad. You’re too busy. You’re too tired. You have too much on your mind. You’re barely keeping it together, and you don’t really know why or for whom, but you’re absolutely certain whatever it is I’m talking about certainly has nothing to do with “you.”

It's not that you or I have too much or too little power. You either don’t have any, or you have all of it, and the examples you set as a result of either condition dictate the ongoing landscape. I assert again you don’t have any power because your meme is not your voice. I say loud and proud that you do not have power because you don’t do ANYTHING that isn’t on the back of someone else. The celebrity gives you license. The work environment sets the rules. The habit courts justification. You’ll “try” and “hope” and “would like to” and “it’d be nice” and “we’ll see” and “one day” or “I’m waitin’ on” or “if I could just” as if you’ve lived a singularly just day your entire life.

You don’t care and can’t cope. You’re not brave enough to admit it, too lazy to explore what happens after you do, and too guilty and ashamed to account for the consequences of operating that way for so long. So keep watching the kids die, every day. Watch the despots grow in power as your silence and complicity become all-consuming. The nature of your power is as obvious as a bullet through a child’s brain, and yet only shooters seem capable of figuring that out.

[1031] Every One Of You Is Fired

I’m so very tired, but it feels like something is kicking around up there.

“Damn, there I am.”

I’m in it. Well, kind of. I’m doing the thing I envisioned for myself happening much earlier, but it’s happening now. I’m buying, pretty much, what I want to buy. I’m building a business. I’m living fort-life. It's all that and a bag of peanuts.

I wasn’t exactly “called out” for going to a comedy show tonight alone, but it was apparent I was the only one who had done so. I don’t really think of it as being alone though. I’m doing something. I’m doing something I want to do, that I can “afford” in the modern debt-ridden sense of the word. This has been the “obvious” pursuit of most my life. I want to do something, I try to do it.

Apparently, that’s the autistic part in full force. “People” are ever-abstract and nondescript in what they want. While I’m feeling confused and betrayed, what’s actually happened is a fundamental miscommunication between people who have not been speaking the same language. It’s not their fault they don’t mean what they say. It’s not my fault I seemingly have a condition that needs things to mean things in order for them to make sense.

The average person sees 4 concerts a year and .69 comedy shows a year, according to a hesitant ChatGPT.

I had to go to sleep.

It's 1:11 PM the next day. I’ve only just gotten out of bed, made coffee, and still feel myself hesitant to doing 30 minutes, maybe, of work before I start up again Monday. I do that “average person” search thing in trying to orient myself a lot. What’s the average mortgage payment or rent? Between $1100-$1500. What’s the average amount of sexual partners? 6.4. I like going back to tests and seeing scores indicating my capacity and potential. I know we’re all average across an infinite scope of variables, but there is little I look at and genuinely believe I couldn’t get really good at or master when I put my head and focus into it.

I am genuinely struggling to just do my work things. Although, this time it’s not causing anxiety. I’m “blocked” like a struggling creative trying to put out their next album. This weekend hasn’t felt like a weekend. I tried to put my computer together only to get interrupted by unknown unknowns and “should have been there” pieces that weren’t included. The symphony show was meh, so I paired it with a decent comedy show a couple hours later. I’ve had one of my favorite burgers to eat. I got 2 more people to sign up for my company’s services. I’m going to another show in a few hours.

There’s still resistance. The topics of conversation have centered around how annoyingly hopeless and lying people are. I’m isolated in that I have a desire, at all, to not be “average.” My “personal philosophy” encapsulated in so many blogs attempting to pragmatically orient is mine and mine alone. After 1,030 entries I’m 1,030 more steps along a lonely road than nearly everyone I’ll ever meet. My existence will make this condition worse and worse the longer I’m alive.

What do I do about that? Keep playing along at my job? I, not quite accidentally, have 4 people currently signed up to the website I started a few weeks ago. I still, weekly, get affirmations about my ability to counsel and encourage. I’m waiting for a “comfortable transition” between my current role and operating independently. I’ve deliberately walked myself into a debt corner so I’d stop too seriously entertaining quitting too quickly. But, why not just go for it? I still don’t have the trust in myself to connect? No, I don’t trust the world to fill in the blanks. I think it’s hard enough to get a handful of people to fall in line on either side of what I’m doing, I’m not going to pull out the net, even if there’s some money already realized and in the account.

There’s a deafening emptiness surrounding me. I guess I can’t make out which direction to walk. It’s all for what? It’s all for who? My friends will unironically talk about needing to get out more and turn down or ignore invitations routinely. It’s not the money or the time. It’s not me. It’s that they don’t know what they’re talking about. They don’t know, or trust, in what they need to not be like they are. To realize your power and responsibility is to court insanity. They “feel” like “things” are “crazy enough,” even if they don’t know what that means.

As my company grows, the amount of distance I’ll put between me and what I’ve come to conceive, coldly, as “learning opportunities” will be practically infinite. When I get to the point of being able to be anywhere in the world either doing my job or collecting enough from the ecosystem, whenever I please, it’s hard to believe I’ll be able to maintain much of the memory of so many hapless or incoherent souls. I’ll be 35 in a few months. I was convinced I would be living an upgraded version of the life I am now 10 years ago. Which of your goals are you 10 years behind on? You think you’re gonna be more or less likely to achieve them in your 40s than you are now? How many of your favorite artists will be dead by then? What new health problem is looming? People aren’t showing up for themselves well before I ever need to complain they aren’t showing up for me.

These notes don’t look anymore appealing, but the block is less heavy. I should get them done, utilize my upgraded shower, get my other favorite burger before the show tonight, and watch this week go by in a flash until pay day where I can take another bite out of debt. My probation emailing trick hasn’t proven to work, I don’t know when I’ll find it in me to fuck with the new computer again, and I’m sure the rain will continue to antagonize regarding all I wish to do outside. It’s alright. I have no real problems, still. I can launch myself into any new direction to address what’s on my mind in any given moment. This thought does not drive me mad. Thinking like that, but not feeling it at the same time would.

[1030] A Short Walk To Work

You know, I’ve been perfectly fine all day. I’ve been a bit tired, but had decent groups, am fed, the weather improved, my water is mostly back and I can use my shower and toilet again, and I did a mini construction thing to protect some water lines. Then, I checked my email.

I’ve emailed the probation departments of the state. I sent the first one Friday, the next one today. The second I treated as though I had received a number of responses and wished to answer questions in bulk. I got one response so far. It’s from the director of Rush County asking to be removed from my distribution list.

Rush County is small, rural, and exactly the type of place that a place like Groups tries to account for. Perhaps, in a world I’ve never encountered, everyone on probation is having their needs met in Rush County. Perhaps, relative to any other county in Indiana with the methamphetamine and fentanyl problems, Rush manages to escape the worst. Perhaps, and my suspicion, the attitude of a person in charge of probation in a rural Indiana county is not the kind of person to entertain anything beyond their version of “help,” “service,” or “accountability.”

There’s a certain kind of brazen crazy you need to adopt to maintain yourself in the social work world. There’s another kind you need to be an entrepreneur. There’s another to empathize and emulate the insecure backward “conservative” fear and power games of Hilljackistan. Mind you, it manifests in different ways no matter where you’re from, but your hurdle is never a question of whether you have the credentials, capacity, or good intentions. Your hurdle is an innate suspicion and pretention that anything they’re not familiar with is going to threaten their power, control, or what they can anticipate.

This is why you have to call “everyone,” meet in person, and let things develop in a way that doesn’t suggest you are too thirsty. For whatever reason, say the abject depravity and disregard of your average person, the go-getter or do-gooder or highly capable is default treated with derision until the direct benefit of their presence is felt. After all, until then, I’m just in it for the money, right?

I know, personally, over years, this state is wildly underserved. That any director of anything, ever, would ask to be removed from an email list before they would bother to ask a question reminds me of the “leadership” of DCS. Put that aside, your pithy contention or moral or perspective, and do things like I say. At some level, it’s an impossible barrier. But, the more people you connect with, and the more you’re able to let the work speak for itself, those people rot in their self-righteous holes as you grow around them.

You don’t want to believe the world is as shit as it is. Most people aren’t people. Most are pathological egomaniacs in suicidal races to the bottom barely refraining from turning feral at the full moon. It’s why so many who’ve been resigned to their fate “wish me luck” with everything I’m trying to do. We know it intuitively takes luck or an insane capitalistic resolve because nothing is designed to enable and genuinely help or fix something for more than a moment if the wrong people aren’t watching.

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I hadn’t written in a while because things are “good.” I’m busy with shows. I’m not thinking too hard about my job. Consciously making the decision to stop pitting my desire to quit against the debt I’m amassing to have fun and own cool things helped. Investing in a means of getting people to pay us directly went decently far. Of course, there’s always something lingering. My friend asked me if I would really feel free enough once I was making a certain amount of money. I enthusiastically said yes. I know when I’ve felt more or less free and why. The less things I “have to” think about verses “want to” think about speaks to that immensely. When I’ve got the bills paid 100 years in advance, every insurance possible, and get to play all day, that will be better than the regal debt and choppy car and niceties of maintaining a professional demeanor for never-enough money at a time.

I’m still watching. I’ve still got things to complain about. I still mourn the loss of opportunity in every unanswered call or invitation. My business partner is still perpetually on the verge of a heart attack. Our client base is as reliable across frustrating metrics as they are any other. I still have a dozen “little things” like shows not starting on time, getting charged more than I’m due, unfixed potholes, ill-temperatured buildings, ashyness and itchiness, and technology gripes. But the overall path feels as accessible as it possibly can without an aggressive advertising campaign and visits to various offices.

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I’ve bought the parts to my new computer and have yet to put it together. It’s going to take focus, prep, and several hours for me to not feel like I’m about to break something. My best guess is I’ll make my attempt next Saturday. I’m already psychologically comfortable with spending 2-3K on an acoustic/electric guitar if it plays like I want it to. It really does feel like fate that the giant guitar store is located 7 minutes away from the comedy spot I’m heading to in Fort Wayne. I’m also likely going to get the wood to complete at least the basic shell of my wood shop. I’ll do both of those things before I pay for more rolfing, which is far and away the cheapest option with a high positive emotion payout and impact on overall health, but still so fancy for a basic budget boy like myself.

At 20 clients, I make as much as I do at Groups. That could be 20 hours of individual, or 2 groups a week. At 40 clients, I’m paying off my maxed-out credit card every month and a half. There are 92 counties in Indiana, 1 wholly opposed to even being contacted so far, and 5 people circling us from the surrounding area. We’ve had 1 person pay, 1 say they could tomorrow, 1 on Thursday, and I’ve 2 transferring to our company from the Groups I already hold. This feels doable. In spite of my wretched state, fascist country, and overall painfully violent and tortured perspective regarding the people in my field who profess to care, this feels doable. The math makes sense, because fuck my feelings. Me and Hussain alone could meet the lowest practical bar. Entertaining some state-wide critical mass or legitimacy isn’t the goal. Developing 20 relationships is.

[1029] What If

I haven’t felt the need to write. I’m not entirely sure what’s prompting me to try now. I opened this word document in the middle of the day. It’s 1:08 AM now after I’ve returned from seeing William Shatner and a screening of The Wrath of Khan. There are certainly a few things happening in my life worth discussing. Time continues to race, and where precisely I’m at in space is ever imprecise.
No matter how much time passes, my brother will remind me just how unwise he is. I don’t see him very often, so when he manages to not be an out-and-out douche, I start to trick myself into thinking maybe he’s gotten a little older and measured about things. I need to cut that out. If I’m 34, he just turned 32. He’s got his good job, wife, and series of hobbies. He certainly believes he has “figured some things out” and can “tell it like it is.” It’s cringey and dispiriting to watch too closely.

My persistently reasonable, mellow, steadfastly supportive father has been peeved for days over how my brother spoke to him recently. My brother has created a catastrophized scenario regarding my dad’s health and eyesight. Like most who might profess to be acting out of “just how much they care,” he got elevated and insistent that my dad rectify the problem with his eye, on my brother’s terms, as quickly as possible, and through a series of condescending comments and know-it-all-isms effectively chased my dad away from having dinner with him and his wife on his birthday.

I believe my brother cares, but he is an absolute dipshit. I feel like I got a preview into the kind of social-worker/counselor mode I’m going to have to go into as he overplays his perception of our dad as he gets older or does little to cope and deal with his fears and ignorance. That inability to cope will manifest as more insistence and judgement regarding the step-kids, my step-mom, and invariably me which I’m certain he launched into a self-satisfied series of empty truisms about me after our last phone conversation.

When a situation like this arises, it’s fascinating to me how quickly people get into their camps. The shared goal of something akin to “love and take care of each other” becomes a series of memories used to rehash arguments or prove weak points. Was the swerve because of bad eye-sight, or being tired, or because someone was walking where they shouldn’t? Doesn’t matter, once you adopt a story that your dad is basically blind and ambivalent about whether he hurts himself or others while driving, you’ll say fucking anything with your head held high and hands on your hips. I’m not exactly looking forward to the prospect of putting my brother in his place again, but if anyone’s going to do it…

My brother has the wrong kind of “matter-of-factism” nature. He can’t see the forest for the trees as he espouses the virtue of chop chop chopping and building his own little house and world that *would never* morally or practically be contributing to catastrophic deforestation. This is what people do once they give themselves over to a fundamentally selfish and self-righteous feeling. You can stay mad forever. You can call indefinite abuse the height of love. You can deftly dance around what action and practice you must engage in to be accountable to your emotions. I feel like I’m navigating this constantly, and not just because it’s my job.

Hussain is high anxiety as well. He messaged me tonight saying he wanted the contact information of the Putnam County probation department so that he could tell them to send us more clients. I met with them on Friday, got one of their people signed up and paid for, sent that person to him, and experienced the first glance at what I hope is not a problem I will have to speak to very often. He didn’t reach out to the client immediately. He waited until his priority, picking up a new old car to fix up, was hooked to my truck and he was driving back from Indianapolis. The client, because it’s the weekend, was with her family and couldn’t really talk, and now what was easy-going gung-ho reliable communication is rubbing against his desire to be too busy and chaotically organized. He begs to be overwhelmed.

It's good news that we got a client. I need 10 more, personally, consistently, and then I’m making as much as I do in my current role. I have zero qualms about Hussain as a counselor or his people skills. I have watched him get way behind on paperwork in every role we’ve worked together. I don’t want him begging referral sources, threatening rapport, or courting a chaos of paperwork that I might have to filter through our, also seemingly fairly-often-enough unreliable therapist. I’m going to see if a guided shroom trip will mellow him out.

It was a couple weeks ago I assured Hussain and Byron that I could do what needed to be done to kickstart this whole counseling thing. I get very enthusiastic and energetic when I’m drinking, so when I say 5 days, it might be 2 weeks, but the spirit is there. Practically, it’s meant spending nearly $1000 to get the website set up, pay system in place, video conferencing situated, etc. Could or should I have spent the $1000 before then? It’s a dumb question. I’m taking things day by day. I’m trying not to invite the default overwhelmed state that happens when you plug into the various chaos universes of our clientele. I spent way more than $1000 on concerts and comedy shows over the same period of time, and twice that on a new computer waiting for me to put it together.

At some level, the isolating perspective of what I’ll deem as a certain kind of “wisdom” is antagonizing me. I see the problems very far in advance. It doesn’t paralyze me, but the invitation to be savvy, cold, bold, or otherwise highly manipulative I don’t like. I don’t want to massage my business partner or my family. I want them to see the same shit I do and just give me a day off to worry about anything else. My job is less to counsel clients than it is the people I expect to work with who will then counsel clients. That’s what a manager does, to be sure, but also, it builds an extra barrier. There’s a faint part of me that would “just” like to get along or be friends or be family, but it feels naïve and potentially deadly.

When the flood happens, I want the foundation in place. Whether it’s the flood of my brother’s stupid emotions, flood of clients, or flood of confusion about potential futures insisted upon by the people I work with. What do those fundamentals consist of? Are we communicating respectfully? Are we fairly exercising balance with our time? Are the bills getting paid? Are there reasonable expectations for what to do next and how? So much of this I didn’t have to say out loud when it was the coffee shop because I was just in charge of it all. I guess in a major way I still am with the counseling business, but Hussain is partner, at least officially on paper.

I plan to reach out to other probation departments. I’m going to make my rounds at places where addicts meet. I told them I knew what to do next, and in 3 weeks I made us $150 and impressed a room full of probation officers. My “matter-of-fact” sensibility is bolstered by work and numbers. I know what we have to do next. I know how to make people confident in our ability. I need him, and anyone I bring on board, to back that up with how I engage people and organize time. Exactly like me? Of course not. But if I send you someone to get scheduled, in service to our joint operation and rapport building with different locations, you make the fucking call NOW, not tomorrow. I don’t want to have to build my own calendar of people filling in my ever-fleeting free time on top of doing all the management stuff and mood-tending while still doing my regular day job. Again, I have every reason to believe in someone’s person-to-person or counseling capacity, but they’re often miserable at the crucial details related to time-management.

I think about that when it comes to getting to all of these shows. I’m almost never late to anything. If I am, it’s usually some other obligation like work and someone’s having a too-coincidental meltdown. I’ve been irritatingly surprised at the $35 parking fee I refused to pay for one concert and spent time driving around a neighborhood, missing the opener. Any other time I’m late it’s because I’m waiting on someone else. I might be late to work a handful of times in a year if I oversleep or something. I’m hyper-conscious of how I’m using my time, and constantly estimating different scenarios to provide buffers or in thinking about how to occupy all of the time in between. I legitimately try to pay attention and be mindful in as persistent a manner as I can.

I want right now to not suck and make sense. If there’s something I can control, like calling and coordinating with you, I feel obligated to do it. Why wait? So I can have one more thing to think about? So I can forget? I’m not saying you’re always perfectly situated or in the mood to do any and every thing you “should” in this precise moment, but if you respect what it takes to maintain a kind of balance and perspective regarding your work, you don’t wait for the anxiety to dictate how you go about your obligations. I made us serious money. Take what I’m telling you about how to protect and secure it more seriously.

That just makes me think about the house flipping. Fuck does that still cut deep and the whole bait-n-switch fuckery feel like a reminder to stay cold and calculating. I tried so fucking hard to work fast, believe, demonstrate, and get a little engine of making enough doing something fun and potentially hugely profitable work. The time pissed away. The investment squandered. The example wholly unrecognized. For as much as people go on about how little they trust others, I can’t think of anything bigger in recent memory that threatened my capacity to trust. What is it all for if you can pour your blood, sweat, and tears into something only to be told the largest benefactors are actually the real victims and I should be lucky to get what I did?

I work. I work really fucking hard. Whether I’m breaking my back sweating to death or wear the weathered resolve of navigating dozens of your problems every week, I’m feeling myself demand more from the systems I don’t feel the right kind of support from. What do I need from them? Take 5% of the fucking time I do trying to keep my shit together to remind yourself what matters, what you can or can’t do, and what’s worth valuing in a dynamic. You think anyone’s going to work as hard for what I want as I did on the house? You think Hussain won’t throw himself off an anxiety cliff if I don’t constantly redirect? You think my family with its incredibly shit track record of emotional accountability and honest discussion is going to just resolve itself?

No, my probably-autistic ass has to cut through the noise and keep the peace and wax poetic in blogs because…I want more? I can check the impulse to expect the wrong things from the forces that will antagonize and test me indefinitely?

William Shatner ends his performance recalling his thoughts upon going into space. He reiterates that we’re specks and going to die and asks several times, “What are we going to do?” to alleviate ourselves of the consequences of climate change. We? We’re not going to do anything. It’s going to have to be assholes like me that have to do it. My task isn’t necessarily climate change at this resolution, but his point is much broader. You’re either stirring up and tending to the familiar drama of your irascible ego and insecurities, or you’re focused on building a broader conception of yourself and your place in the world. Who’s team are you on? Each one I try to join usually only has room for one person who doesn’t even know what fucking game they’re playing.

[1028] All Too Human

I’m hesitant to write this as I feel it’s going to be more confusing or accidentally misleading. I think I’ve tried to speak to it in the past, but lately it’s been a hotter-button issue for me as I continue to inch forward in what I hope to achieve with my counseling business. The phrase that feels wholly incomplete is “I fear success.” That’s the most meager launching point that needs to be explored.

When I was doing drug studies there was a major panic moment. I had just bought my land, I think paid off my house, and otherwise set myself up to live fairly comfortably in what had been built so far. I wasn’t in debt. The future was bright and wide open, and I was scheduled for my next study that was going to pay out around $8,000. Up until this point, I always had something important to pay for or some foundation I was working to establish. It wasn’t just “free money” to “do whatever I wanted with.” I felt, for the first time, a sense of limitless possibility, and I could not slow my heartrate down enough to qualify for the study…or the next 2 or 3 after that.

I’m somebody who is hyper-conscious of needing restraint. I study history. I watch “good people” get corrupted constantly. I know, in my heart-of-hearts, how little I give a fuck about so many things and how rarely do I come up against anyone who would bother to check an impulse I might have. In reality, they’re most often just salivating at the prospect of what I’ll get up to next and whether or not it will be interesting enough to warrant a pause on their infinite scrolls. This is great, if you’re doing great, consistent, or driven by something more than potentially errant notions of freedom and power.

Spending is an analogue for me. When I spend with “reckless abandon” it’s actually after I’ve considered my dozens of potential budgets and made a decision about what is going to provide the most psychological satisfaction in committing to a lane. Am I going to a few shows of my “favorite artists” over the last few years, or am I going to ALL THE SHOWS in a concerted effort to meet or pass the amount I went to last year? The money is there or incoming. The debt, relative to what you’re in debt for, is manageable if not negligible on a not-so-broad scale. And it all makes sense in the context of what I’m hoping to achieve, experience, or play with. I didn’t hesitate to buy my land, build the coffee shop, or drop the cash to make my fort livable. They all made sense in a deeper longer vision way than any one expensive buy for mere indulgence.

I’m enthusiastic and persuasive. I have been for as long as I can remember. I know, intimately, how to play on people’s ignorance, lack of self-esteem, language, pathological cyclical thinking, or otherwise chaos and stress of the myriad decisions that they haven’t quite consciously made in service to the lives in which they find themselves embedded. I know I could build a following because I already have one, and have created one in every work environment that required trust and time and genuine relationships. I’m praised almost every day for my ability to encourage and provide practical “no bullshit” advice that isn’t judgmental or self-serving. My utility is a lock. There is no reason to believe that my perspective is going to magically transfer into shit advice the bigger we get.

But what happens when you get too removed from the day-to-day struggle? What happens when the practical constraints are no longer in place because you’ve got $8000 to “do whatever” with? What happens when the “professional” who might existentially wish for us all to do better and practice good habits and yada yada no longer has to show up to keep his bills paid, because the infrastructure or client list is so large we could fall into that failing posture of so many organizations that make millions and do so much harm? What happens when the directions we might take come down to a measure of my veritably regal good will?

I’m not suggesting I’d even be deliberately malicious, but the things associated with burnout play out in subtle ways. I don’t have it in me to hold the spousal-abuse victim’s hand, by the dozens, through the 7-year cycle of stuckness. Am I going to dedicate a large amount of time on oversight and accountability if I’ve got the money to travel and amuse myself? Will I take the necessary time to find the right people to account for the things I’d otherwise feel responsible for? I already don’t trust the people I’m closest to to operate like me, and I don’t even operate as well as I should! I trust them to do as good as they can for who they are and what they’re interested in, just like me, which will change as the business evolves and the money comes in.

I’m worried it’s all going to change so fast I don’t have the opportunity to establish a strong base to work from. I got the coffee shop running on a base of extraordinarily high rent and shitty advice from a lawyer. Even if we were breaking even, we couldn’t grow, and we were embedded in something that started costing us way more than just the money. I don’t want to be desperately clamoring to fit in to the broken expectations and dictates of the larger “sick care” system. I also don’t want to situate ourselves in a place of getting constantly taken advantage of in attempting to meet needs, but not getting paid what it takes to live ourselves while doing so.

With great power comes great responsibility. To whom much is given, much will be required. You can reduce your power by subscribing to a degree of chaos or adages regarding fate. You can pretend as though the wrong kind of selfishness is a virtue and that everywhere you’ve been in life lies solely on your will, capacity and awareness. If you’re gonna rise to the challenge, you have to try and account for all that comes with it. If I’m going to unironically believe in myself and my capacity, that comes with the obligation to check why “things” do or don’t look like I might profess a desire for them to.

It's my willingness to get ratchet that I worry about. I’m willing to be shameless and unrepentant in pursuing what I want, and that’s a problem. Especially as things ramp up and start actually working, I don’t envy who gets in front of me. There, I think I need to find a way to make the megalomaniacal story boring well before I get there.

There’s something that feels perverse though as well in helping people. Like, I know some people really deeply appreciate what I’ve told them. And I know they’re vulnerable. So, gimme $10? Gimme $50 because you need me that badly because your therapist and doctors are all shit? But it’s not just you, it’s every person with average intelligence unluckily born to a neglected area to abusive or ignorant average parents. I deserve to be rewarded that greatly for knowing you so intimately? For understanding the broader trends and nature of an average person?

I launched the website. I’ve been feeling more motivated and creative in ways to promote and open to navigating the foreseeable bumps in trying to punkishly DIY my way forward with a burning credit card. I need to make peace with the idea that there is no real check on power that doesn’t come with death. I don’t have any genuine desire to misuse power or take advantage of people. That’s a nice way to put what may still happen as things creep into areas I’m as yet unfamiliar with regarding freedom or opportunity. Make sure you speak up if you see things getting bad, but I can’t pretend I have any confidence you will.

[1027] Nice Things

“You can’t give up.”

I was just on the phone with my supervisor. She was calling to “make sure I had the support” after I called my officer manager’s supervisor. I provided her supervisor the context behind the months of struggle I’ve been listening to about the lack of leadership, direction, or protection from threatening and escalating-in-creepiness behaviors from clients. My office manager has tried, many times in the past, to email, ask for help, and detail her concerns. She’s most often met with outright silence.

My supervisor nonchalantly suggested that, like her, I know you can’t give up and stop advocating. If you have a genuine plan and boundaries and capacity to help and protect yourself, and that advocacy is in service to that, sure. If your leadership is shit, of course you can give up. I’ve stopped bringing things to “leadership” on many occasions because they’re not leadership. They’re figureheads playing sadomasochistic roles. They don’t want to use any real individuated wisdom or bring consequences. They want the tortured dance that protects the glossy edifices of “professionalism” and “care.”

Give up. Give up more often than not. Most things most of the time aren’t going to get you where you wish to go. You think you need the paycheck, so you’ll squeeze your head until you bleed from your pores. You can quit before or after you’ve followed directions to stick gauze in your ears and nose and hold buckets for the rivers from your eyes.

75-90% of the reason I stay in any role for as long as I do is related to my coworkers. My longest job had large periods where I considered my managers and coworkers like family. My actual supervisors at DCS and I got along very well. My supervisor now leaves me alone, and my office managers, save for one, are able to laugh and joke and not turn on each other while also handling our difficult clients. They’re overwhelmed by default, and the busiest one is on the verge of quitting. Why? An incredibly creepy client, who has already hit on her, rifled through our trash and appeared to play with used tampons for 25 minutes while in the employee bathroom.

Previously, clients have threatened violence. They get extremely cussy and rude. The office managers are responsible for dealing with 300+ members, most days there’s maybe 2 of them, and with pharmacy changes, random incoherent communication, and seemingly zero support to address the more dramatic ones, it’s a recipe for popping. If she leaves, the precarious place I occupy psychologically about my responsibilities or desire to maintain groups with integrity becomes pretty severely threatened. I still need to make about eight grand though.

It's an unconscious thing to keep yourself trapped in these abuse cycles and advocate that others abuse themselves as well. That’s something I don’t think my supervisor is aware that she did. She’s not actually concerned about my office manager, just like she’s not actually trying to support me. She’s trying to contain the Bedford office. Every industry, in the name of capital, control, and professionalism, does the same thing. Train derails? Oh the toxins won’t possibly be that bad, you know, all history and evidence aside haha! Market crashes? It’s a race to the scripts about normal business cycles and personal accountability. It’s at once arguably one of, if not the most powerful patterns and so simultaneously tired. He beats you? Laundry list of reasons/excuses you’re trapped and dependent follow.

Until you delineate a breaking point, you don’t have one until your body or mind fails you. Any discussion about boundaries or self-care could, if nowhere else, start just before the physical limit of exerting yourself against or in service to that which breaks you into pieces.

If there’s some broader “point” of existing, be it service to each other or something “greater” that you call “God” or abstract “goodness,” it’s to not kill yourself as you go about it. It might speak to why the Jesus story is so compelling; it embodies the Noble Battered Wife narrative.  A point of true genius to couch the balance or comeuppance after death, right? Helps keep the flock from feeling like they need to own or do anything this precise moment that their skin is peeling away. No no, I’m sure that’s just wool!

It makes sense why you either can’t recognize the narrative, feel the depth of its consequences, or draw any real and sustained effort or motivation from its recitation to react contrarily. It’s built into our psychological fabric of meaning. We aren’t just battered wives; we’re designed and predestined to thrive the more we contort ourselves to the thrashing. Keep the secret. Suffer. Pass on the generational trauma like you might a pocket knife that will run down the length of your teenage daughter’s arm. Don’t police how, whether, and why you do…anything, let alone begin to trust what you can see, hear, and feel in interacting with the information.

I kinda feel like I cracked a code in my broader confusion about the state of our existence. In the general “opposite day” that people occupy in how they use words, “sacrifice” at the individual word, if not syllable, gets to run a micro-ironic instant life-death-relive cycle, like so many tributes to undead saviors. You’re not lying, you’re celebrating and emulating peak nobility in death. Everything’s a target. Mass shootings are pretty on the nose, but we’ll kill the planet, education, regulation of any kind, or even the memory of a just, civil, and safe space until we can only sustain interpretative mockeries. We’ll co-opt literally everything into feeding the self-destructive architecture. Think about what happened to “woke” or #metoo or Black Lives Matter or anything that started pretty clearly in opposition only to be snatched out from under the already embattled and stultified ethic.

This is why we can’t have nice things.

[1026] Type 2 Brain

I was awake at 5:30 AM today. I went to bed earlier than I might usually, and given I only sleep for 4 or 5 hours, I’ve been fairly awake for just over 2 hours. I have a few things I want and need to do today. I found myself immediately distracted trying to make coffee without my usual cup, get my contacts in, navigate the cats, and set up my work computer. A few days ago, drunk, I proclaimed that I would turn up my effort in fixing our problems in getting the counseling business in working order. That meant to me spending money creating an online presence, organizing spreadsheets, and making an obscene amount of phone calls with hopefully in-person meetings setup. I really want to do “just all that” right now. The mild, familiar, foreboding panic struck.

I still have my day job. I still have my day job taking away time that my business requires. I’m already incredibly distractable. I know I’ve been mentally checking out of my day job with each week and each email telling us they’re expanding into new markets while continuing to neglect ours. I’m already anticipating a call, email, or just some negative thought and attitude constantly pulling me away from figuring out a detail that lets me get a website looking and operating as I wish.

I feel so wrong. I don’t know how to do both. I don’t know how to earnestly use the same potential focus and energy to churn through day-job tasks so I can beast mode my endeavor. I’m living this incredibly uncomfortable contradiction that suggests my effort in both directions will be a waste of time and money. At least with the day-job, I know how little I need to do to keep spending money on toys, trips, shows, and food. I’ve bled indefinitely in service to my entrepreneurial ideals to lose money, get taken advantage of, work myself to the point of passing out, and temper my disposition. I know how much it took of me to get, not “nowhere,” but I’m not running a coffee shop I’ve had open for ten years, nor am I hopping over to the next house to flip, nor do I have anyone out here on the land working on a shared project or me helping with one of theirs.

The entire story of my effort is one of constant begrudging effort to not get overwhelmingly dejected that no one is coming, nothing will work, and never is it going to make sense, go smooth, or result in some anticipated level of status and stability after having done wise, helpful, useful, and forward-thinking things. I could save myself the disappointment, money, time, and discomfort in my gut by just doing the functional nothing of my day-job, making the regular amount, and adopting a “come what may” posture about the business.

But everything antagonizes. Every person who tells me what a good job I’m doing, or how I’m not like any counselor they’ve had before, or that they’ve never trusted someone enough to call outside regular work hours, or how they appreciate that I know how to push, or that they’re thankful I wish to protect the integrity and focus of the groups, or that my advice and patience are things I should get paid a lot for, or how someone doesn’t know how I’m able to “do what I do,” or literally anything nice and encouraging ever – I want to break down. It’s not right that I’m, apparently, this capable of eliciting this kind of feedback, whether it’s accountable or true-enough I’ll leave to you, and I’m just a cog. I’m just stuck. I’m just flailing to “fit” into an entire system and culture designed around the exact opposite of what I’m fighting to maintain.

Having more time is great. Filling that time with more concerts and comedians is even better. Getting to spend time with my dad and friends is as good as anything I imagined about my obscenely wealthy future where I had retired at 30 and pretty much maintained being in the business of partying. My mind is occupied by things screaming at me that enough of the foundation isn’t right. I’ve yet to enable the exponential potential of the positive sentiments offered. Something about those sentiments has to be true. Either they’re total bullshit and I’ve weaponized them against myself in service to building something out of a series of false narratives. They’re only a little true, so it’s a mildly less damning version of the last scenario. They’re true-enough to qualify as functional, which means I’m either a fucking moron, or uncreative, or horribly poorly connected to make anything that functions, again, in sheer irony, that I’m already working and getting paid at precisely what I’m trying to do for myself. Or they’re particularly and individually true in the earnest way in which I believe they’re conveyed, which triggers my, “Well, wouldn’t it make sense for me to get paid and organized around these habits verses the shit I’m stuck in?” sensibility.

I don’t want to shut off the tap of a paycheck I can anticipate, particularly when I don’t have my next 20 tickets bought yet, and $7000 of debt, and just rediscovered an Amazon deal tracker that saw me buying $130 headphones for $15 and $145 watch for $20. Money is always on its way out. Always. I don’t know how to reconcile my divided gut. As soon as I get done writing, I’ll get the email off to probation, I might get some discharges done, and I might get some drug screen results and notes completed. It’ll probably be around 10:30. My first group isn’t until 3. That’s almost 5 hours to watch some videos on how to design a website, get it paid for and setup, do my groups, and be on my merry way. It’s not hard. It’s not a time crunch. But it’s still wrong and it’s still off, and there’s any number of calls or emails I’ll get that break even that vague semblance of order.

And I’m just a little bit cold, and my cat took off outside before eating breakfast, and I’m going to be thinking about the UPS truck who is bound to pretend to drop off my package again in spite of me finally getting numbers on my house. I’ll forget I need to eat and shit and I’ll need to release a spider back into the wild. The details that describe the undermined effort and intention will get delineated, and the next time someone asks how things are going, I’ll barely refrain from saying, “What’s really needed is gone, if it was ever there to begin with” like some forlorn poet.

A major contributor to my general frustration is that I’m unable to discern the reason “anything has to be like this.” Is it just some rule that you can’t treat people fairly under capitalism? Is “fair” even a reasonable concept to entertain? I’ll always wonder why nothing “we” talked about wishing to achieve or be to each other never was bothered with. Why can’t we just shut up? Why does the lie need to be so loud and at the heart of the ironic churn? Why does the betrayal have to manifest in so many catchphrases and corporate-speak or empty truisms about love and family? Why, if it’s already so hard, do we make it harder with layers of bullshit and laziness and fear over phantoms?

I’m 34. I habitually find relationships where communication and honesty aren’t really the girl’s thing until crisis hits, and then perhaps we should never speak again? My friends are on collision courses with varying forms of heart-attacks or strokes and then baffled when I would suggest they won’t be able to stop me when I go into heart-attack/stroke modes of effort and stress to get what I want. I love my house, but I would never use it to entertain, as if anyone’s ever coming. I have so much shit. I have so many projects and things to play with. I don’t have anything outside of myself to orient towards besides the professions of “woulds” and “coulds” that I’m apparently in no way capable of doing on my own nor enabling and inspiring others to help me with in an ongoing and persistently positively financially consequential way.

I have the fantasy I’m always measuring myself against. I’ve started and continued to run a coffee shop. It has a presence in the mall and a delivery service. I’ve learned all these things about house flipping and am always shopping around or working on the next one. Each day I’ll wake up and take another bite out of a project on the land, read a chapter or two, get a lesson from some insanely talented musician, work out, call up one of a dozen people and get a delicious meal. All of the details in all of the blogs about the rent, weather, mental and physical health of anyone involved, time, money, or ability to focus when “surprise” panic sets in allow for it to be a considerably more compelling delusion than it should be. But it also serves to make the reasonable argument for a measured (registers as plodding) approach to anything new or “big” I wish to approach. So, again, I’m wrong and feeling wrong, even if I’m not, as it becomes impossible to tell which aspects of the story I have any real control over. I can chill and slow down. The more I feverishly move to learn and overachieve? I introduce more chaos and panic and I’m left alone and cold.

Just because I don’t know what to do doesn’t mean I’m desperate to be told what to do or follow orders. I don’t need your sky daddies, your superficial rules, or your frightened personal ethos that keeps you emotionally “stable.” I want more things to make sense. I think it is a “just” cause and thing to believe in when not marred in subjective experiences alone. The more I can get things to make sense, the more I’m able to move through whatever is in front of me. I’ve spoken about the panic dozens of times; it’s taken a slightly different form and I’ve found more details. It makes a little more sense. I’m feeling myself drawn towards what was handicapping drudgery as I run out of things to say. It doesn’t get better, because neither you nor I are any better or worse than our awareness and culpability to any given moment. We’re certainly not fucking that.

[1025] Bang

Do I have to talk about it? No, not really, but it’s probably more unique and entertaining than what you’ve been up to today.

I feel like it never fails. When I think I’m going to be “done” with my day, wrap up the last of my responsibilities and psychologically transition into the headspace that anticipates drinking beer at Winterfest and seeing a comedian, pain and tragedy knee cap me at the finish line. Mine is a profession where I’m walking the razor’s edge of others’ sense of stability. A “normal” work day might end with someone genuinely expressing how convinced they are that today is the day to die.

There’s procedures, of course. When someone tells you in 5 different ways with a tone that leads you to believe they’re serious that they’re on the suicide train, you’re supposed to get their answers to a questionnaire! The questionnaire will then determine if you need to create a “safety plan.” The ensuring that you have this timely documented will protect you from liability when you’re otherwise ill-equipped counselor might open themselves up to (not really) consequences if they botch the engagement.

This is what I’m paid less than inflation-adjusted minimum wage though for, right? Not to just cope with derailing where my head wants and needs to go for “self-care,” but juggle life and death? You know what you tell a person who’s on the verge of killing themselves? It’s a gamble. You’re not in a conversation or negotiation, you’re on the other end of a desperate confessional. And your alleged supports are tried-and-true social-working despots who know well in advance that they can’t really save anyone nor is it necessarily their fault if someone dies. It’s not an unpersuasive or unreasonable place to come from, but it is woefully incomplete.

This is the kind of danger you run into though when you take this “wide net” cavalier approach to admitting people under the auspice of “some help is better than no help.” It’s presumably better for profits or for your self-conception that you’re reaching more people, but it plays out as a series of cascading mini catastrophes. We attempt to “counsel” people in groups sometimes comprised of people who haven’t been in the program for even 2 months. During that 2 months their attendance might be miserable, and we might discover they have some pretty severe mental health concerns that this environment is in no way equipped to deal with.

What happens to the group? They see someone “nodding,” and they have no idea if they’re just tired or high. They hear someone slurring. Is it a speech impediment, or are they drunk? They hear someone manically ramble. Are they just high energy? An anxiety disorder, unmedicated, turns a member incredibly hostile. Depression, abusive relationships, and ongoing illegal activity in the misappropriation of medication gets downplayed as mere details undermining the broader effort.

This last week I’ve had people do a timeline exercise. They put emotionally compelling instances from birth until today on a list, their ages next to them, and then we proceed to develop questions to unpack what’s on the line. If you have a traumatic memory at 6 and then the next one at 18, what was going on in those 12 years between? If you have 7 tear-inducing thoughts all coupled over a short period, who was around? Who died? Did you move? Did you drop out? Did you switch from incidental use to harder things? It gives you a chance to create a flow that unpacks deeper memories and magnify areas of your life you’ve condensed in the stories and habits of your self-conception today.

I’ve talked with some of my clients for 7 months. I’ve learned more about them in one week with this exercise than I have the entire rest of my time. Everyone’s been molested. Everyone’s had their favorite and most important emotional support die on them. Everyone’s witnessed or on the receiving end of violence. Everyone’s still blaming themselves for things they did as children. Human depravity knows no bounds, and it’s working its way through our bodies and minds like air and water.

You know how you conquer addiction? Incorporating the feelings associated with all of your disassociated memories. You break, by recognizing and redirecting, the automatic response to mask, blame, hide, or self-destruct. You know what you can’t really do surrounded by people you don’t trust 5 to 15 minutes at a time once a week? That isn’t to say there aren’t productive groups or people who take thing seriously and consistently attest to the utility and appreciation they feel. But we’re playing doctor. They have brain boo-boos, I provide the Band-Aid version of surgery.

My suicide-ideating client said she needed to be locked up somewhere. She had been thrown into her dark place by getting treated incredibly unfairly by probation, a therapist at shithole-doesn’t-begin-to-describe-it Centerstone, and against her best effort to keep it together in spite of her mental health problems and relatively new introduction to the program. She needed to take a call from probation while we were talking. She didn’t respond to my texts for 10 or 15 minutes, so I called in a wellness check. She didn’t meet their criterion for forced detainment and transportation, and she agreed to go to the psych ward. She told me she lived 20 minutes away and would text me or have the hospital do so when she arrived. She had packed and said she was leaving as we hung up.

An hour later, I text her asking if she made it, she responds she’s in the town that’s about halfway there. I’ve heard nothing else back.

As with most people, I can usually identify when you’re cursed with being too smart for your own good. She’s highly emotionally intelligent and intuitive. She’s one who came into groups swinging with awesome contributions and no pussy-footing about discussing explicitly what she needed. That kind of gusto and confidence is, unfortunately, a red flag in these kinds of environments. She’s not an entitled rich person with every reason to believe undying delusional self-confidence is going to result in continued unearned prosperity. She’s desperate. She’s like my guy who complimented and thanked me for how much help my advice was contributing to fixing his marriage, and wouldn’t you know it, he wants to be a counselor too! And he would greatly appreciate any information I could provide.

The next day, he’s calling me and the office over and over again, before work, and while I’m in group, panicking over slipping up and failing a drug test while on probation.

Then it comes out his mental health, that he was in control of on medication, is not where it needs to be because he can’t find someone to prescribe him what he has been taking for 6 years. My advice, 15 steps ahead of what he needs to focus on, is twisted into this “help” that realistically barely, if ever, accesses the roots of any given individual. I’m expected to maintain a certain level of persistent positivity and “support,” as the waterfall of unaddressed and potentially un-addressable issues eeks out over months while we’re otherwise talking ourselves in circles.

While you’ve been reading this, have you just been screaming to yourself the “obvious” answers and conclusions I should draw from this? Are you so deeply thankful that the people I describe aren’t you? Do you thump your own tale of tragedy and mental health struggles that keeps anything new neatly boxed in and away from your responsibility? I do. I call every person their own black hole for a reason. I write dispassionately, forever, because they are variables on the stream of what I’m conscious of, but not to be blamed for. I care, right? At least enough to not let my “intellectualizing” turn into the psychopathic antagonism or negligence of my colleagues and colleague-adjacents.

The struggle is not the notes. The struggle is not the hour or two I have to do something annoying, be it in service to the housekeeping of the job or to try and get someone pointed in a not-dead direction. The struggle is with the shape systems are destined to take when people are at the helm. Is this the best we can do? If she’s dead tomorrow, do I shrug it off and say, “Hey, I tried!” and point to the risk assessment I attempted to do? You know, the thing that’s hard to interject between each line that might then signal a “click” and destroy your ability to keep her talking after reducing her to the paperwork.

I don’t take any special pride or feel some sense of nobility as a feeble Band-Aid. If, and it’s a big if, you encounter people genuinely interested and capable of “fixing” themselves or “stabilizing” and creating whatever their version of “better” is, they’re still human. They can persuade themselves they’re worth nothing, the effort doesn’t matter, no one cares, and it all ends as the inevitable heat-death of the universe. And they’re right. They’re not more or less right than if they described the exact opposite opinion of themselves on some transcendent upward spiral. But they’re right enough for them in any given moment that they wish to be convinced of what they say or feel, and wish to justify their next act.

That we feel equally justified to persist in our ego and psychological trappings forces me to consider the desperate psychosis of the culture writ-large. You see, in reality, we’re complicit co-conspirators in the unsustainable exploitation of literally every resource. You can chalk it up to law-of-the-jungle and natural cycle dynamics if you please. You can extoll the virtues of capital and technology to obscure the underlining intentionality and machinery. You can maintain a persistent moral delusion and solipsism or be born dumb enough to never find yourself even considering. We must wish to die too if this is how we’ve chosen to go about caring for one another.

[1024] Lay It On Me

Let’s keep fishing. It’s precisely 1 AM in this illusion of time. I decided to stay in bed until approximately 11:30 AM this morning. I picked up my, still silenced phone from the shows on the weekend, to discover I had missed a meeting. The meeting was one I’m not entirely sure was asked for by the person it was supposed to be with. The meeting was confirmed via email, but with no calendar indication. The meeting was to discuss – I don’t know – It was just supposed to be about how a person who sick with both HIV and cancer is still sick with those things and might be about to die. Superficially, you might think I approached the chance to be a part of this meeting with too much ambivalence. If you’re me, you’re heavily suspicious and question the wisdom of insisting upon and presenting the meeting to me in the first place.

There are many things that would have not happened. I wouldn’t have said some measure of encouraging thing that would make him better. I wouldn’t be able to offer medical advice. I wouldn’t have been able to show solidarity in tears or psychological war stories of empathetic horror. I, by all accounts, would have had an immense opportunity to make things worse in being unable to mask my relative indifference to a situation that I can’t influence in a direction the person involved or onlookers would say, “It was good you were there.” Knowing this at my core, I believe I stuffed any remote idea that I might attend so far away from my active consciousness that I immediately calculated whatever negative opinions I might garner by not showing would be preferable, indeed better, than starting my day indulging the façade to that degree.

Much more simply, I just didn’t bother with thinking about work until I wanted to. There’s every reason to think the previous paragraph is true, but if the slightest conditions had changed, like me hearing my cat start to heave before vomiting, I could have been up and on the call and played along, and none would be the wiser about my growing ambivalence towards my job and antagonizing anxiety slowly creeping into my desire to “do” or be polite.

I’m writing again instead of doing notes. There’s 6 of them. They’ll take approximately an hour if I don’t focus. I even rearranged my furniture so I could establish a little desk-like area so I’m not fumbling with a drum pad resting on my ankle as a mouse platform. I’ve watched a fair amount of TV. I’ve played the piano I questioned the wisdom of owning two days ago. I’ve eaten store bought food and only left the house to pee as I’ve still not fixed my water.

But I’ve been a little on fire. Allowing myself to access that ambivalence has provided more focus and intention. I can tell because when I was playing the piano, I wasn’t struggling to play the piano, I was just playing. I’m feeling the intentionality grow behind fixing the water and cleaning up around my property, and just generally getting a touch more organized. It doesn’t make a lot of sense to me as to why the harder I genuinely neglect the thing I don’t care about the more I find a desire to do what I do care about, but then, of course that’s not true.

My first group for the day we readdressed what it means to be honest. People are always free-flowing in their shares about what they’re lying to themselves about or how they know they’re lying when it comes to what they “need to do” or “hope gets done” or “should be doing differently.” You don’t have to be smart to recognize when you’re full of shit, and you don’t have to be an emotional genius to know when you feel guilty or empty and stuck after expressing some familiar hopeless sentiment about how to improve your life. People were focused and looking into the camera. The lie is so loud and all-encompassing and we’re staring into it with little trust or clue on how to best it.

I feel as trapped or stuck as anyone else. I might externalize the factors and fight to demonstrate otherwise, but my heart-of-hearts isn’t appeased. I get flickers of hope when I see how others acknowledge and describe the same condition. I get chills, routinely, in how some people describe their circumstances and the efforts they’ve made to improve and how they’ve noticed the difference. I started this year speaking to how I recognized a need for more structure. I’ve taken to “structuring” my weekends and off-time with shows. I’ve been contemplating how and whether I could go to music camps to redevelop practice habits.

The structure I need is of a broader cultural one. I need more than is on offer. I need a senator who isn’t a literal fascist. I need a job that is willing to pay me what I’m worth, not what they’ve deemed is fair. I need to feel like I can get body work done and check-ups without sacrificing weeks to months of my life earning the privilege. I need to see a string of things that make consistent sense to combat the abject nonsense of advertising infotainment feeds and errant ignorant commentary. I need to be working with a crowd focused on problems that transcend the here and now.

I have such gripes with these “conscious collectives” or pretentious hobbyists who all seek the same kind of detachment from the broader picture. They’re like bizarro religious cultists who feel entitled to a particular language expressed in a particular self-protecting way, but the way they deny the broader suffering is through less blood-drenched imagery, drug use, and spending mysteriously high amounts of money. Mysterious in that it comes from places just as dirty and implicated as they would otherwise rail against if they weren’t born on the right side of it.

It's weird to think that I’m never gonna “get it.” That I’ll be doing some version of this for the rest of my life I find incredibly baffling. That’s something easy to believe given, well, I’m 34 and practically nothing about my relationships, professional environments, living situation, educational opportunities, general conversations, or people I’ve looked up to have coalesced into something I regard as healthy, persistent, remotely understood and confident, or even basically honest and accountable to their own nature let alone how it operates within the game at large. I’d be a fool to maintain anything but the most tepid conception of the future and my place in it provided “things” continue to go precisely as they have or people stay people.

So then what? How do I give a fuck about a few thousand in debt or upsetting a norm or expectation of an otherwise crippling work environment? What stops me from just paying the minimum on the credit card for the next 10 years as interest piles much higher than the fucks? This broad view of television I’m getting has people like Stewart Lee offering the burnt-out ironically critical takes on “the world” and “culture” as observers have been doing since we developed eyes. Speaking critically, ironically, or hilariously about it all isn’t going to shift the nature of things. If anything, it’s going to help instantiate them further as we chuckle “the pain away” from any genuine sense that something can, should, and will change provided we actually do something.

If I spent half as much on the things I’ve mentioned or thought about doing around the house, committed to them in all of the time I have between groups, my off days, and hours before concerts, I’d be done in 2 weeks. Knowing this is a big reason I find myself hung up so often. There’s a catch in being goal-oriented. I, at least, know certain projects can be done, done quickly, and if not “comfortably” at least within the budget I’m freely spending to go to shows. I’d rather be in debt to see a comedian or band that could tragically die at any moment than pretend I care or wish to speculate on whether my neighbor’s mood would be improved after I turn the pallets into a fence. Then what? I go back to TV? I buy an expensive guitar or computer? I fuck off to Europe for a week?

It's all ever-present and here now. It doesn’t matter what I pick. It doesn’t matter if I can ascertain the “truth” of how or why I’m doing something. It matters that it feels and represents me actually choosing and feeling the consequence and empowerment of that choice. I feel incredibly dejected when I have to buy a totally necessary piece of equipment to fix one of my vehicles. I will drop the same amount of money in a heartbeat at the prospect of driving 3 to 5 hours away to see a show. I will lament the idea of having to do my incredibly easy job for 3 more months, a job I get praised and thanked for routinely, and then drive myself into more debt for trinkets and toys as though I know I’m trapped and only through buying and the little rush of being naughtily click happy is the best I can manage to cope and feel alive.

I’m going to do these notes, at least half of them, and it’s going to be pushing 3 AM by the time I’m done. I have one group at 11 AM tomorrow. If it’s not raining or freezing, I might immediately go outside and see how many pallets I can break down or things I can shuffle about to make it look less like I’m keen to express my half white-trash origins. I’ll have my phone turned back up and on me in case someone wants to reach out to me about a problem I can’t fix, don’t care about, and they’re not really interested in solving.