I think that life is having a good poke at me right now. I mean, since the age of 11 I’ve always felt like it was jabbing me in the gut anyway. I now have the 20 dollars to receive my Gohonzon, so I can start changing things and getting stuff done by my own hand.
In the midst of said movements, dad and his monthly reminders (that I was well aware of and dang tired of hearing, hence the desire to get up and get out to get things rolling as I did last week…) that I didn’t need to hear, but he pretty much smeared all over my face like the oiliest of baby oil gels ever. It bubbled and boiled in my system for hours. It’s still there.
Duh, I need to chant.
But, I know time is passing. Shut up long enough for me to do something about it. I know how old I am. I dreaded celebrating this 28th year of life, but put on this ridiculous poker face the entire day, eventually falling into the trap that I was going to be happy and all right. My dad…he…does that to people. He does it to his gf sometimes, and I often wonder how she puts up with it. But then I forget–he’s slightly loaded thanks to all those hard work days. Of course we’ve got to respect the benefactor.
But that’s the thing. I wrote a book hoping for support to build a nest egg. I’m job hunting. I’m doing transcribing and data entry. I’m manic, I’m lethargic, I’m hopeful, horny, depressed, frustrated, lonely, crowded….everything. And at this moment, having a slight flare up that I can’t control, because I don’t swallow pills well without applesauce.
So, what’s going right?
A few things, I thought. Now, those things are coming apart. It’s kinda like trying to build a house with wet paper….in the rain. It’s like the stupid washing machine hose in the basement I tried to re-connect today–just not working. And, the more I tried to fix it up, the more water got on the floor. The sweatier I became. The more hopeless it became.
Ha. And my dad keeps dipping between these lectures of “be kind to yourself” and “get on the ball”. I’m nobody special, but…jeez. I often wish that I could just do 16 all over again and get it right.
I’d gladly suffer through dial-up again just to attempt to fix things. But alas, I’m 28 and although I’m crawling on my knees (and in my skin), I have to keep focusing. I’m taking verbal hits from this freakin Baby Boomer as a Millennial just trying to make it in this world. Not with a chip on my shoulder or entitlement in my pockets. I’m networking and carving out my own–and I don’t have faith from anyone–just onlookers who observe, complain, critique, and forget so so many things I can’t begin to name.
I’m baking my own pie, though. Looking for my own slices. I’m not an oblivious, ungrateful creature. I’m a broken, unlucky daughter of a Capricorn sweating and getting dirty.
…and processing mixed messages.