The Terminator of Doom and His Chihuahua

The obsession fades as quickly as it came, draining out of me, a bit more each day, until I have days where I don’t even think about him until the afternoon, until the evening, and it drains, dripping, leaving me where I feared I’d be, alone with myself, with what feels some days like a long list of failures and a sharp craving for connection.

I’ve been crying like a motherfucker lately.

I didn’t cry when my husband left me, or when I had to leave the city I called home, or when I got so broke I didn’t know how I’d pay rent. But now I cry every single fucking day, usually the radio or the television or a line in some book, usually over some kind of gesture towards connection.

I fucking cried, sobbed even, while watching the finale of the Great British Baking Show. I hate the word wept but I fucking wept. I couldn’t stop. I saw a woman won who I wanted to win not just for her talents but also because I now really love to see a minority do really well in life just to piss off the Nazis. And I saw her family and friends jumping with pure joy at her win, and fuck I’m nearly crying now. Because fuck it, damn it, I want to win at something, and I want to be surrounded by family and friends who love the fuck out of me. And instead I’m in Bumfuck, MA wondering many days if I will ever have the strength or the talent again to produce something beautiful and true. Has life thrown too many punches at me in the past five years to keep me down for good? Is it even worth trying to write something beautiful and true anymore in a culture that has stopped reading?

Dread hangs over me daily. I know I need to move again to save myself, but the idea of moving terrifies me. I’ll move to LA and my 2001 4Runner will break down and I’ll run out of money and be without a car and without a job and then without a home, and I’ll be fucking homeless on the streets of fucking Los Angeles, and nobody will know.

I guess this is being an adult, right? Who among us isn’t scared to death of something? Who isn’t whistling in the dark? Who doesn’t feel like an imposter sometimes? And despite the dread I’m not one to give up. I keep going, a bulletproof weeping android, plowing along, taking frequent breaks to dull his existential pain with doses of baking shows.

(I started cooking for myself. And I’ve written five pages of my book again. But enough on that.)

I’m lonely but my life doesn’t suck. I have a couple of good friends here on the East Coast. Sometimes I get to see them. I drive home from my job at UMass and the radio plays pop songs that make me cry, and the crying is real and true and I cry and crave more connection, and I make it home to my little dog, who stands up on her back legs and waves her front paws at me as I call her Little Girl and close in for a hug.

5 Replies to “The Terminator of Doom and His Chihuahua”

  1. Crying shows that you’re capable of feeling something. And, if you stop feeling, life will be pretty bleak. Keep fighting the fight. People you don’t even know are in your corner.

  2. Hey, five pages is five pages. I usually write in fits and starts, truth be told during manic phases. Keep going I am certain there’s something beautiful and true waiting to come from within you. There are people out there waiting to read what you have written. (Yes, despite the change in culture, there are some of us who still read.) There’s no shame in crying; it’s better than being numb. Right?

  3. Since my ex and I split a number of years ago, I’ve noticed I tear up at the drop of the hat. Watching, This Is Us guarantees at last two tear ups. A song can cause me to cry. I never used to tear up. I’ve been told I have the typical cold Germanic way. I guess something in me changed with the devastating end of my relationship. I’ve come to accept tearing up.

  4. Dude, are you sure you don’t need some therapy and or meds? I, too, for years thought this was normal. “I’m an artist. “I was/always have been emotional.” “This is my normal.” It’s not normal. It’s a sign of depression, especially if it’s been going on for more than a few weeks.

    I’m 62 and for the first time in my life I’ve been put on the right meds (for me) by an actually shrink who specializes in this field rather than my general medical practitioner, who would put me on some type of anti depressant with no real follow up or adjustment of dosage or changing of medication until we finally got it right. I’m hear to tell you that I have my life back. Maybe for the first time. Sometimes we just aren’t wired right, for whatever reasons, and will never experience regular thought processes like “regular people” not that that’s something I’ve ever wanted to be. I’m still me but more subdued, thoughtful, mindful, caring, still, grounded, self assured, happy, quiet, cheerful, less burdened, ashamed or defensive all the time. I no longer feel like I’m under act by the world, or overwhelmed by my feelings. I still feel everything. Deeply. I’m just able to absorb what I’m feeling without it overtaking my entire being on an endless mindfuck of this and that and the other that long time depression, PTSD and other forms of mental illness can trigger and those endless hours of no control or being able to get off the crazy wheel. I’m not sure why I’m telling you all of this. Other than your post sounds like something I would have written three or four months ago. I’m so grateful to not be that person anymore. I’m just learning how to be me, with out the damage, baggage and histrionics of my formal non functional brain synapses and lack of serotonin uptake inhibitors. When the brain has the right chemical elements to work right it makes living so much easier. I hope this helps.

    1. Hey Kirk,

      Yep, I’ve been on meds and in therapy for years. Trying to find a better combination with my shrink right now. Thank you for the suggestions.

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