I used to write because I wanted to express my grief. I wanted to show that I had suffered, was suffering. I believed that I had all the things a person needed to be a great writer. Then I did the stupid thing. I began to accept. I accepted that I was alone. Would be for the rest of my life. It’s not as pathetic as it sounds It’s hard and I’m sad but it it isn’t a tale of self pity at all.
I’m accepting that life will never look like I want it to. That is even worse than the ill perception of my aloneness. I say that because not being able to influence life to the direction I want it to be is nothing more than terrifying for me. I also accept that there is no doubt that I suck at a person.
Let’s talk about this last one.
Yesterday I was standing in line at StarFucks when I saw this lady, I’m not sure if you remember Henrietta Hippo, but if you do then I can easily say this was her. No really, this woman had to have a thyroid problem. Huge is an understatement. She kept sighing and gasping. I lost my desire for coffee at all. I was in line and I knew as soon as I could get my mind off of this woman I’d start to want my white caramel mocha, half the pumps.
A normal person, whether or not they wanted to admit it or not, would have been disturbed by the sight. I order my beverage and listen closely to her order. A venti campfire Frappachino with whip and caramel.
Okay, This is very hypocritical of me but I began to get angry with her. I mean here this woman is dying before my eyes and she insists on continuing her plight. I had the gaul at my seventy extra to, while holding mine, look at the cup in her hand, yes I waited for her to get her order, and shake my head and say, “Really?” Then walk out.
I sat down on a bench across the street. I had time before work and decided to sit for a while. She came out. Cane in one hand drink in the other. I noticed she was slouching a little more than before. She didn’t make it very far. She leaned against the wall between the StarFucks and Einstein’s and then threw the sugar bomb before sinking to the ground in tears. She cried these big heaving sobs. She kept touching her body and looking at herself. Her arms, her legs that couldn’t cross. Legs that people just stepped over as they walked by. She stopped the big sobs and sat there wiping her eyes every now and then.
I left my coffee on the bench and walked to work. I’m not going to laude the fact that I didn’t stop thinking of the woman all day. I mean I do know what she’s going through. How incredibly hard it is to stop the hunger. The evil nagging that haunts you all day long. How even if you are not hungry you need to eat because that is when you feel something other than the giant hole eating you. Maybe not. Maybe for her it’s something else but for me…
I know how it is. I’m not nearly as bad a she was but I know and still I did what I did.
I can accept that I am shit in human form. Some people would like to say there is a reason and that if I could find the core pain I’d be able to heal and become a better person. Some say if I find Jesus. No a shit is a shit and I am one. So do I even deserve to have any blessings?
Regardless of what or why it is, I hold my self responsible for who I am.
It makes sense that I’m alone. I see myself choosing it actively and besides who wants someone who is as basically cruel as I am, cruel and cowardly. I could have apologized or helped her up. I could have even offered her my hot coffee to throw at me for being a hypocritical dick. Instead I stopped going there. It was my StarFucks — so named because they fired me for reporting that several of the employees were dumping the hard change in the tip jar instead of giving it to the customers — and now I go to a plain Starbucks a little further in the opposite direction just to make sure I never see her again.
I used to write because I wanted to express my grief. I wanted to show that I had suffered, was suffering. I believed that I had all the things a person needed to be a great writer. Then I did the stupid thing. I began to accept. I began to get clear that I don’t have grief. I have self pity and a sense of entitlement that borders, maybe even crashes through, narcissism. Now I write not to express my grief but instead to grieve my humanity. I have everything I need to write but it looks nothing like I thought it would.
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