Here in the backwater, everyone complains about groundhogs eating their gardens, yet seem to be all too willing to take weather advice from the same big rodent ceremonially ripped out of a stump on an annual basis. That’s about the kind of overall logic I’ve come to expect from the place. There are exceptions, but they’re no fun to write about!
In my first post I referred to the popular movie starring Bill Murray, “Groundhog Day,” which is is a dark romp through the repeated day of a man stuck in a Pennsylvania town and ostensibly stuck in his own life. Two things come to mind: The Pennsylvania Polka and the following meme for which I claim no credit:
Life in the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania is not so bad but it is SO cold right now and I’m SO far off the path. I don’t get out of bed some days.
I refuse to feel ridiculous about posting my real feelings “warts and all” in this 2018th year. I’m kind of daring myself to put this on display and this is despite the creepy crazies who are far more infamous for blogging from here than I’ll ever be. Here in Coudersport, there is a single mental health provider for the downtrodden welfarie like me: Dickinson Center, Inc., and, I think it’s important to name them here because they are overloaded and, in my case, do the best they can though I often feel like doctors are just feeling their way along the wall of the dark hallway that is my case file. I’m healthfully distrustful of mental health providers. Just kind of sticking a pin in the topic in case I need to blast them for pulling a total crazy med swap on me at some point.
Short short version, and I won’t revisit this: My mom died when I was about four. My sister died when I was about seventeen. I’m the child of an alcoholic. All these things, together, ensure that a person is going to turn out, like, all fuc*ing wrecked up! And I’ve had a bunch of slaps in the face since I finished graduate school in 2006, which itself was a tumultuous experience, at best. I have all kinds of neurons wired together that make it really difficult to be what I know I can be. As an effeminate boy growing up in Trump country (not going to make the 16 connections from there to here for you , this is the short version, remember?) I was bullied to the point of, like, perfect situational awareness of who is in the room, what they’re talking about, and if it’s me. I’ve found that now that I’m getting in years nobody gives a crap about that anymore, so… maybe I’m losing that edge, which is fine because it takes a lot of energy.
Life was how I wanted it to be for maybe a handful of months. I call that the “I have arrived” time. I have to find new destinations that lie in what we call the future. For time reason and for some years now these potential destinations have eluded me and when I get to a point where I’m awake more often than not, I’ll be poking at that topic to see what I can conjure.