I wrote the following on July 15, 2019 while I was waiting for my appointment. I apologize if the following seems all over the place.
I’m sitting in the therapist’s office waiting to unravel another saga in my life. Earlier today, I told my co-worker that the buyers of my home are going to look into purchasing my house without selling theirs. His exact answer was simple – “I can’t keep up”.
When someone usually gives me a short answer like that, my mind as it always does thinks of various ways to interpret those words:
- Is he saying he doesn’t give a damn nice way?
- Does he find my situations baffling?
- Why do I care what he thinks and why do I tell him or anyone about my shit?
With today being such a day where I’ve worked myself into amnesia, I can’t find the fuck I’m supposed to give about the first two. The third is easy to answer, loneliness leads to illogical bouts of verbal barfing to complete strangers. There is an embarrassment, much like barfing, in telling anything to people you’ve never met. Although keeping things inside or lettings things go seems like the better, healthier way or at least the better, healthier way that saves your bullshit from other people, it ends up destroying you as you spend a lot of time racking your soul keeping it internally or creating a life of avoidance by letting shit go.
As I wait here and count the minutes to my session, I listen to the more emotional side of 1980s adult-contemporary via Peter Cetera, known for his songwriting and lead vocals from the band of Chicago. If you have ever listened to how he geared Chicago towards his “Glory Of Love” style of production during the 1980s, you probably rolled your eyes knowing the early years that brought “Beginnings” and “25, 6 to 4” were gone. This commercially successful yet sappy and corny transition brought about hits like “You’re The Inspiration”, “Hard Habit To Break” and “Remember The Feeling”.
My father liked that music, despite his background growing up poor in Baltimore. He was often the one who would say things like “The Beatles stole from black music” and yet was inclined to defend The Rolling Stones because they were “cool”. Coupled with the fact that songs like this etched in our song rotations, one must wonder how much blackness we check within the things we love. If I didn’t know any better, I would start to wonder if our culture breeds overseers who at the drop of a hat disavow anyone who veers outside of what is considered “black culture”.
I’m taking the long road to go to the overall point, but I do not require the validation of the culture I am part of. Signing into Twitter, Facebook and Instagram with delight that I’m jamming to one of my “corny” songs should never be part of anyone’s daily routine. If you are gonna be corny, whack, or whatever our culture deems something that is the opposite, be that outside of the public spaces that our culture frequents online and offline.
Now I know what you are saying; why should I be afraid of a firing squad?
You shouldn’t since our culture doesn’t like to harm in these matters with bullets; we do it by doing the dozens: memes, retweets with biting sarcastic commentary and whole video blogs explaining how one who listens to this music has been assimilated. It is in this moment a part of my brain has called upon a familiar voice from my retail past. This voice is a voice that often clowns my long-winded over-the-rainbow and through the woods thinking with a few choice suggestions:
Why don’t you get some pussy?
Why don’t you smoke something?
I usually calm these voices down by remembering that cancer treatment is expensive and that sex for the sake for relief also brings about some unforeseen pain and disease.
The time is now 6:30pm. I am going to stop here and read exactly what I wrote and wonder when I’m going to make my one-act play.
Generally when I arrive at the therapists office before my appointment, I engage in small talk knowing fully well that they are not here to do that. At least they are not here to do that with a complete stranger who isn’t board certified isn’t a therapist. My frustration with my need to be this quiet, internalized human being gives way to random bursts of conversation without any start or finish.
To put it as one lady told me, I’m dumping on them.
Or am I?
When I was told that, I had to consider where that feeling came from. The lady was not wrong about bringing problems to her; she had enough of her own to deal with and mine were seemingly out of one of those long novels that children of a modern age tend to purchase the movie version or cliff notes edition to get the main points of the story. However when I turned the conversation in her direction to listen to what she had to say, the words that she had spoke were filled with mentions of social media hijinks and slice-of-life highlights of her day.
If my twisted soap opera tales gave her a headache, what exactly did she think of the anemic chatter about social media and her tales of how men were always hitting on her would do to me? I kept the farce of being interested in her conversation because I had this stupid idea that dealing with dull, uninteresting conversation was part of the deal with being in a friendship that I wanted desperately to turn into a relationship.
She and I eventually stopped talking before the summer of this year. We resumed talking towards the middle, but It was clear that things had taken a shift. I realized even when things were good that she was phoning it in because she thought I was a fool; a lonely fool who would give her money when the opportunity presented itself.
That however is another story.