Not for me – for the promises. I’m giving the promises of this program three months to start showing some signs of life. Because whenever I read the promises like they’re a checklist, I’m not doing a whole lot of checking.
The Promises. Of course, there are twelve of those as well. All the amazing things that will happen before I’m halfway through. Well, you know what? I’m far beyond the halfway point and zip, zilch, nada.
Which means I’m not being painstaking enough. Which, honestly, just ask those around me. I’m not sure I can be any more painstaking. Every exhale is a loss, a defeat, an acceptance of failure. Which mean I’m doing it wrong. My very breathing is a cycle of pity and anger? What’s that leave me with?
Well, how about a car, forty-eight ounces of cheap ice beer, and the back-end of a WalMart parking lot? Because that seems to be the secret dream my disease wants for me. And lately, I’m feeling ready to say “uncle”.
It’s not about drinking. It’s about living a life. It’s not about suicide. It’s about changing my very core to be something resembling a human being that deserves to be breathing on this planet. There’s plenty of reasons I should remain alive. It’s just that those very reasons are being hurt by me. And it’s just getting worse. It’s not a suicide – it’s a mercy killing. Sure, there would be a few days of grief, but it would be immediately followed by much head-shaking and clacking of tongue – he just couldn’t pull it together. Had everything you’d ever want out of life, and refused to believe it. In fact, he went out of his way to be miserable, by choice.
It’s self-spite. Something I like to do in my free time. I’m not worthy of fun, good times, what have you. Those are for the other folk – the mass of normal that clogs my existence. Those are the people I hate; the dullards that make life look so easy. These, the other 99%, are the ones I resent.
For today: go to sleep. I’m tired and rambling and in the morning, I’ll laugh at a few of the things I wrote here tonight. My one hope is that what follows isn’t the deep, soul-crushing exhale.