Yesterday I turned 34.
I fucking hate it.
Not the raw number, so much. I long ago stopped giving a fuck about that. At least I tell myself that.
But the fact that, in my eyes, I don't have a whole lot to show for it.
I have a couple of books not very many people have read, obesity, a fucked up back, knees, and ankles, and intermittent alcoholism.
I take care of my grandmother, but really, I don't do much. I make sure she gets her meds, feed her, and try to keep her company.
Her dementia is getting worse and worse.
Most of the time, I'm not sure she knows exactly who I am, she's running on instinct and the fact that I'm always here.
I ask her who I am, and she'll tell me her nephew. Or her neighbor. Or whoever.
She may or may not remember my name.
At her worst, she's borderline violent. She has slapped me, and hit me with her cane. She had a grand time one afternoon stomping on my feet.
Usually I know this is coming, because it's after long hours of verbal abuse, argument, and crying.
Why am I doing this to her?
Why won't I let her go home?
Who the hell do I think I am?
And when she's lucid, it's worse, because we both know just how far she's gone.
And then we're crying, and she's apologizing, and insistent that I shouldn't be the one carrying this weight.
And what do you say to that?
While my family is not as close as we once were, things could be a lot worse.
Everyone is just busy with their lives, with their work.
And I volunteered for this.
So I can't cry about it.
But I'm going slightly nuts.
I had a daydream, not long ago, where I had a nervous breakdown.
I dreamed I snapped, went outside, and fell to my knees in the front yard wailing away.
Full on Russell Crowe, spittle flying, Gladiator breakdown mode.
When I woke up in my recliner, it took a few seconds for me to remember where I was.
My grandmother was sitting in her chair, crying, asking me over and over again to open the door so she could go home.
Honestly, I'm about as far gone as I can remember being since I came out of the worst of my depression.
I'm not suicidal.
I'd really like to think I'll never get as close to that edge as I once did, ever again.
But, I'm going slightly nuts.
Just fucking batshit.
The truth is, the inside of my head is already a macabre tapestry of self loathing and hatred.
In my head, no one actually respects me. In my head, the concept of that is insane. In my head, the best I can think of myself is that people either feel sorry for me, or see an opportunity to use me for something.
Whether or not this is true, it's what I fight. Everyday.
On one hand, I'm trying so hard to get my shit together.
Trying to start a business teaching gun stuff, trying to get book two finished, and fully realized, hoping I can get some traction with it. Trying to figure out a plan of action for the websites and blogs, and the blog/ e-zine I'm going to try to do with some friends. The youtube channel to go with it.
And so much of it right now is just spinning my wheels.
Because I have to rely on other people. Proofers and editors, bureaucrats, family members, possible writing and business partners.
Because the only income I have coming in is disability from the VA, I've got to be careful. I wanted to have hung my shingle by now, so income from teaching CHL and basic marksmanship could be put back in the business. I could use it to take more classes, which would go in the blog/ ezine/ youtube/ whatever, while learning more and further developing martial skills.
But right now it's just one more thing that should be that isn't.
And what I want more than anything, what I need to do before I can fully realize that, is reclaim some sort of physical fitness.
At the very least, I need to get much further toward that goal than I am now.
If for no other reason than my mental health.
I'm 34, and still fat.
Every time I've started to make some real headway, I've found some excuse to let the doubt and self loathing take over.
The Army shit still creeps up sometimes.
Not war stuff, but Germany shit. Fucked up spine and people thinking I was faking shit.
Father shit, holy fuck, do I have some daddy issues. I don't really know why. We had our differences, we had our issues, we nearly came to blows a couple of times, but it was never really movie of the week shit. We were always close.
And fuck, broken heart shit still comes back.
Why I should give thoughts of a woman who doesn't love me, and for all I know never really did any of my time is absolutely beyond me.
I go months without thinking about her and what we had, at least what I thought we had, not giving two fucks, and then bam. I'm a wretched mess.
I don't know why I carry this bullshit with me, but I do.
All my faults and failures.
And I don't know if writing about it helps.
I thought I did at one time.
Now, now I'm not so sure.
No doubt there will be people who read this and send me messages of support.
Which I will answer politefully.
But this isn't a cry for help.
I don't want an intervention.
I'm thinking very seriously about my online presence.
What I put out there, and how much.
If it helps or hurts.
Both professionally and personally.
We become who we train ourselves to be.
I need to unfuck myself.