HOW DO I GET OUT OF WHO I AM?

Nan with therapist; . Dreamers, 1899. John Brown.)

What poor therapist would want to get stuck with an 81 year old woman with degenerative arthritis, in slight cognitive decline trailing a Ph.D. in clinical psychology behind her?  (That’s my inner response to my suggestion I see a therapist).  As messed up as I am, I wouldn’t want to do that to anybody.

I’m lonely but don’t like to be around people, one child has disowned me, another avoids me, and I am responsible for bringing to life a Down Syndrome child.  I have sold two houses impulsively–losing considerable money–am avoiding 5 women who are desperately lonely and I can’t crank myself up to make a contribution to my fellow man/woman.  Not quite agoraphobic, I inch away on my walker, also avoiding my dirty dishes.  On top of that, my heart has turned to stone.  This is my truth; please don’t argue with me.

About Nan Mykel

I used to think I would be a child prodigy, but then I got old. Formerly I had fantasies of rubbing elbows with cultural and academic leaders but that did not come to pass because I did not become a cultural or academic leader or any other kind of leader, for that matter. I am not even an "Alpha Dog," a term learned from a friend who had to become "Alpha Dog" in order to influence her own pet. (When gazes lock, she never looks away.) For years I expected to become a published author, but in passing I could not avoid the fact that I had little to contribute to the world's bulging dumpsters. I'm embarrassed to report that I also considered my primary process artistic productions powerful, rather than mildly neurotic. Which is not to say that I disrespect myself, only that I am beginning to doubt my potential for making a mark on the world. If I focus on strict self discipline I may be able to keep my garbage removed on a weekly basis, to keep the kitty box changed, the clothes cleaned, the dog watered, fed and walked, but that just catches me up to the starting mark again. When writing I physically grapple with words, wrestling them from their indifference into attempted chunks of awareness. I sit heavily on my chair; I breathe in artificially cooled air; my ear drums note the tap tap of the keyboard and the steady uninterrupted sound of the air conditioner, What is that sound? The roar of the ocean from 30 yards away...Inside, my thoughts are are balls in an electronic game machine, bouncing hither and yon from lever to lever. I am a little grim and intent until I recall a dream related by a black man in the prison where I once worked. He said that when he was a small boy, back home, he dreamed he was standing on his front porch pissing, and that he suddenly found himself pissing stars...
This entry was posted in age, Miserable (but not whining!) and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

5 Responses to HOW DO I GET OUT OF WHO I AM?

  1. joey says:

    We could all write something similar, but we don’t all write it, and I commend you for your truth.

    Like

  2. I could write something just like this but with different details. Life is hard. The fact that you admit and allow yourself to acknowledge where you are is honorable. It doesn’t feel good to be where you are. I’m so sorry. The saddest thing for me to read was that your heart has turned to stone. I’m afraid that’s where mine is headed some days. Right now, it’s already pretty cold. You are not a bad person. Just know that.

    Like

  3. I know this so, so well! It may as well have been my story.

    Like

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