I’ve been plagued by some sort of creeping malaise for the last few weeks, or maybe it’s been months, hard to tell. It’s no way to begin a post, I know, but I don’t want to come across as vague or scatterbrained. I’m just under what, for me, is an unusual amount of stress.
Things will be more settled in about a month or so, after I relocate and move on to greener pastures. It’s brown and dry and dead-ish here.
My current neighbors -the riff raff- are prepping for another warm season and summer full of partying that I’d rather not be around for. It’s been a mild winter and, only nearing January’s end, there are still late night antics that could erupt into full-blown screaming matches (again).
Plus there’s just some downright weird stuff happening, too. Case in point: The 21-year-old girl who moved in with her father next door about five months into my “tenure” here has apparently taken to sleeping in her car after a late night of partying.
I saw her at around 4 a.m. this morning when I let Sophie out for her nightly visit to the DWP (the doggie whiz palace). It’s also the time I typically step outside-in my undergucci’s- for some fresh air, a look at the stars and to watch Sophie’s back while she’s in the bushes attending to other things. Imagine my surprise when I happened to see little eyes-hers-peeking out at me from behind the steering wheel.
Good thing I hadn’t decided to take a leak under the stars, though I don’t think she’s the type who’d care. I’d care, though.
I often hear coyotes howling nearby and the neighbors tell me a very brazen mountain lion has taken to wandering our streets. But, in my undershorts I realized the lion wasn’t what was afoot.
I don’t know if I was seen out there but I figure if someone’s going to take up temporary residence in their car, especially around here, they should expect to at least see an amputee in his underwear staring up at the sky with half a mind to whip it out and join his dog, who’s happily peeing in the middle of the road. Around here, that’s not as weird as it sounds, for I’ve seen much worse. And at least I’m willing to admit I’m part of the weirdness here.
At around seven, when the father leaves for whatever place he’s gone at seven o’clock every day for the past year, she turns off her car, slithers into the trailer, then lets out her whiny dog to piss on my tire, and that’s that.
The weird father/daughter dynamic has -and likely will- blow up again anytime. Thank god they’ve taken to avoiding each other. I feel sorry for the doggie, though, stuck with those two like that.
I’ve had a ringside seat to all their screaming, crying, doors slamming, the whole bit. Then the next time I happen to see my neighbor, who I now refer to as the Father of the Year, he has a hang-dog look on his face and a smug comment for me, as if I was the one responsible for all the noise the night before.
So I’ve understandably taken to avoiding them both, for Sophie and I are great neighbors. Here, genuine friendliness is taken as a sign of weakness, and therefore an easy target for others’ crap.
But Sophie and I don’t deserve that, which is why I’ve been making plans for us to leave here. Clearly everyone is too close for comfort here and, all things considered, the community probably does very well for itself.
But fist fights have broken out here a few times and it’s not a stretch to imagine some of my neighbors packing heat. Add some liquor into the mix and you’ve got yourself a good ol’ fashioned, down-home Lynyrd Skynyrd song.
Booze, gunshots, lifeless bodies out in the street, self-inflicted gunshot wounds and lifetime prison sentences, and high-speed pursuit car chases. It’s all there and it’s exhausting just to think about. And to think I used to like that music. Ah, the naïveté of youth.
Anyway, it’s a fact that I’ve felt dizzy and been stumbling more often lately and, as an upper limb amputee that says a lot. Sometimes I swear that dizziness and clumsiness define me more than anything else. It doesn’t help that I spend much of my time either sitting down to eat, lying down to overeat, or standing up to cook.
No wonder I’m so goddamned overweight and under-exercised. And poor Sophie’s stuck with my sloth-like existence. If only I’d bought a smaller RV Sophie and I would spend a hell of a lot more time outside exercising and less time snoozing.
It’d go a long way toward getting me through a dark energy I’ve perceived since the outcome of the 2016 presidential election. You know what I’m talking about. Ever since, I’ve perceived something far more insidious working on me, deep down inside.
Call it a profound sense of injustice that someone who so closely resembles my childhood antagonist and the man I’ve struggled so hard to not become was somehow elevated to the status of Most Powerful Man in the World. Really?
Though I thought I’d survived all that, suddenly the sneering visage of my old man is everywhere. The president’s usual, bitter expression is one my father typically referred to as “shit eating” and I suppose he would know. It is, after all, the very same expression he always wore, too.
Anyway, this overall brain fog I sometimes feel has affected my cognitive skills, to a point where I’ve had some good thoughts worth putting down in writing but haven’t bothered out of concern for the emotional cost it could bring.
What would be the point? No matter how well I might express myself, Donald Trump would still be president when I finish and I’d feel like I was back to Square One again.
It’s like a black cloud, always hovering over my every deed and my thoughts. In keeping with the old saw to “keep your friends close, keep your enemies closer” I’ve found it best to fully immerse myself in Trump’s daily activities. And for good reason; turn your back and he just might getcha. It’s happened many times before, decades ago, and has never ended well for me.
On top of that, I’ve experienced an uptick in neuro aberrations, mostly as absence seizures and headaches. My sleep schedule is way off kilter and all these are linked, I’m sure. Trump’s presence in my life is a key part of this.
To many, Trump’s antics and buffoonery, his what-will-he-do-next novelty has made an unprecedented satire of American politics.
To others it’s a shining example of materialism interjected by hook and by crook into the system “gone rogue” and “run amok.” It’s even laughable at times.
To others still, Trump is no joke. I am among them and, in this I’m in good company. I/we don’t like to talk about this feeling and I/we certainly don’t want to be confronted with it every day.
So deep and so private are our feelings that they’re not readily found on message boards and online special interest groups. None of us want to talk about it any more than necessary; it’s all around us as it is.
Many Americans and world citizens too, have become somewhat inured to Trump’s antics. But for me and for many who share my perspective the shock value is never lost. In our experience, nothing is sacred and anything is possible.
One thing is clear: Turning my back on Trump isn’t an option any more than it would be to turn my back on traffic approaching behind me as I ride my bicycle. It’s a particularly uneasy feeling.
We all sometimes feel this and have developed effective means of dealing with it. My solution is to keep a close eye on that rear view mirror.
The sight of Trump’s snarling face and the gravelly, demanding tone of Trump’s voice inspires something in me that’s primal and visceral. I can sometimes just feel it, shouting for my attention, and I know I’m not the only one.
Long before Trump’s election into office I saw him for what he is: A shameless liar with an innate ability to smile as if everything’s fine when in fact things are only “fine” when they are good for him.
Anything less brings out the eyes bulging, neck veins popping tyrant that is always lurking just beneath the surface. But like the Wizard of Oz, all that bluster serves as mere cover for the cowardly and frightened little man he truly is.
The world at large never sees this however. Allowing it would only open up the possibility to future losses, an unthinkable idea. So it comes out behind closed doors.
Sadly, for those among us who remember how such a cowardly tyrant once ruled our lives his voice once again rings in our ears. A “trigger,” therapists call it, one that must be “processed” and then “mastered” so that, when the time comes it’s something that can be “handled.”
But Trump’s is a voice that won’t be ignored, one that I can’t bear to hear yet one I don’t dare turn my back on. Ironically, prior to his visible entry in the 2015 primaries Trump didn’t even exist for me.
But as his chances of receiving his party’s nomination increased, so too, did his presence in my life.
“America,” I remember thinking “is too progressive to elect another rich white guy president now., especially a loudmouth like this guy.”
After electing our first black president in ‘08 the first female president must come next. But the rich guy somehow eked out the win.
Suddenly, something I thought I’d left behind decades ago re-emerged as if it had never left. Memories of terrible emotional pain once again stirred in my soul, despite my belief I’d left it in the past. I’d barely survived it the first time; I didn’t know if I’d survive it again.
It was heartbreaking for me to realize how quickly and deftly I adopted the survival mode of my youth. But the reason for it seems obvious now: for better or worse we simply cannot unlearn those things that allowed us to cope, even survive, long ago.
I hope this message is clear but, if not, that’s okay. Airing my general political grievances as I’ve done here is always enjoyable and relieving. Writing it down helps me melt that brain fog and restore some clarity upstairs and, I’d like to think, makes me smarter. No, really.
I don’t believe anyone confronted with an abusive person behind closed doors should have to suffer in silence. Maybe, in reading my words you’ll not feel so alone, because you aren’t.
Everyone needs a lifeline at times, and sometimes it’s enough just to hear another’s story. Maybe one day you’ll share yours with me and it’ll be just what I need to hear. For now, though you’ll always be able to find me here.
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