Recovering, Real Talk, and a Thin Vein of Nihilism

Hi Darling Ones,

Whenever I take a little break from blogging it’s hard to get back on the horse. It doesn’t help that the thin vein of nihilism that runs through my soul is growing ever wider. It widened a bunch during the first eighteen months of COVID and as the Delta Boogaloo continues that vein grows. The fucking abortion nonsense in Texas added another bunch of centimeters.

So I’m over here shouting to the clouds, “none of this matters. everything is pointless. fuck it.”

Also, I’m more than a little ashamed to admit, I’m gunshy. Being told I was a shallow, talentless writer whom nobody will ever love has left my self-esteem, usually held together with bubblegum and popsicle sticks, in shambles.

Also, I’m exhausted.

I don’t know about you, but the older and introvertier I get the longer it takes to recover from being social. Make no mistake, I love small-group socializing. Hanging out with my sister and brother-in-law the past two weeks has been a blast. However, it exhausts me and by Thursday I was running on fumes. I barely had the energy to make polite conversation. I would lapse into silence because I couldn’t force any thoughts into my brain or words of of my mouth.

Thus far my recovery has gone something like this.

Friday: Sister #2, Ben, and Walter leave at 5 a.m. I stir a little, but then fall back to sleep for about a half hour. I rouse around 5:45, check to see they’re really gone, and then practice* myself back to sleep. Two weeks without an orgasm is too long. I take three naps, finish reading Daughters of Sparta (it was only okay) and start Infinite Country, watch half of the Netflix show “The Chair” (it is really very good). I speak zero words to anyone.

Saturday: Shower, finish Infinite Country (also only okay) and start Quiet in Her Bones, speak on the phone with my friend EM, take two naps, finish “The Chair,” and head to bed at 10 p.m.

Sunday: Finally start to feel like I’m not dying of exhaustion. Get up at 8 a.m., futz with the Sadness Garden, think about buying expensive socks, finish Quiet in Her Bones, and take a nap. My mom comes over to order some slippers from Amazon for my dad. She doesn’t think she’s capable of ordering stuff from Amazon so I have to do it.

Darling Ones, here’s some real talk, my dad is not doing well. He’s five years out from lung cancer and a stroke, and his health is rapidly deteriorating. He’s got chronic heart failure and diabetes and he keeps falling. He fell so hard last week he knocked himself unconscious and my mom had to call 911. Both his big toes are messed up from the falls and they are chronically infected. He refuses to be admitted to the hospital but claims he’s not ready to die (Sister #2 asked him). It is sad and scary. I don’t know how to help either of my parents through this. I’m not sure he’ll make it to 2022. This sucks. Hard.

So that’s where I am today. Sad, anxiety-ridden, and unsure about everything but the utter pointlessness of it all. But, I’m back on the horse filling your brains with shallow, talentless nonsense.

You’re so lucky,
Jodi

 
*It’s a euphemism for masturbation that I stole from “If Only You Were Lonely.” I ain’t very good, but I get practice by myself.

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