7:49 PM - FRI 12.05.14
Transcribing some things I wrote in a composition book awhile back...
Someone recently complimented me on my nice handwriting (And I've often been complimented on my handwriting over the years). And it's nice to be complimented, but it's also strange - I actively worked at having nice handwriting (One of the few things I've "actively worked at" in my life), but now it's just an increasingly irrelevant, archaic skill, that means nothing and is rarely noted..
It's interesting - as I typed that last bit, it seemed to beg the question, "So, if it's easier to be angry at a real person than some vague 'idea', why didn't you develop 'white-hot anger' towards your mother when you actually met her?".
And the answer to that question none of you asked is, I think, that meeting my mother and having her become a "person" meant empathizing with her - She was 23 when she had me, had two other kids (I was the youngest), was an alcoholic, and was married to an abusive alcoholic herself, so she was clearly in pretty rough shape at the time.
And the other thing was that she was clearly so sorry about what had happened, so full of regret, that my being angry at her, or even sad in front of her, felt like it would have been "piling on" - I mean, the woman basically lost three of the four children she had during her life - not a very good "score" - so she's probably done a much better job beating herself up for her mistakes in life than I ever could, even if I wanted to.
On the other hand, if Omar Pupo had some sad story that explained why he insulted me, hit me, and sexually abused me during my time under his roof, I don't know what it is. And he was a middle-aged man when all this happened, drug-and-alcohol free (so far as I know), and theoretically in possession of all his faculties. And the one time he had the chance to explain himself, express his regret, whatever - we had one exchange of letters years after I'd left - he didn't take it. And since his mind has now "left the building", if he is in fact even still alive, that's pretty much the end of the story.
I didn't work at WW today or have any auditions, so I told myself I was going to do my recycling (I have three-and-a-half garbage bags full of plastic bottles in my living room), then stop by the 99-Cent Store on Wilshire and buy some Xmas cards (I'd planned to do that on Wednesday, driving home from Santa Monica, but that 99-Cent store had every cheap-ass Xmas/Hanukkah item you'd ever want...except for cheap ass cards).
But I didn't do that.
Instead, I did dishes, did the trash, picked up around the apartment a little bit, wiped the kitchenette counter area/swiffered the floor, finally put all my online training for the new WW thing into "Escheduling" (So I can actually get paid for it), and did a couple loads of laundry.
Now, that's not really that much work - and it mostly qualifies as the "basic maintenance" involved in being an adult - but for me, that's a lot to get done in a day.
And after it was all done, I felt tired and depressed.
I had "entertainment options" this evening - a SAG screening on the one hand (for a movie I don't give a shit about, but still), and a screenwriters mixer on the other (Howard goes to them, and thinks I should too. He worries that I "don't get out enough") - but I was so tired and bummed-out I opted for "neither of the above". I just hung out at, home, listening to a couple of Marc Maron WTF podcasts (I'd listened to him talk to Norman Lear earlier today, then Julia Sweeney and Dr Drew this evening).
As is often the case for me, I'm unhappy that I'm unhappy, because "getting things done" is supposed to make you feel better/less stressed-out than not getting things done...but here we are.
I think part of it is that I didn't do the shit I told myself I was going to do (I have a hard time getting things done; I have a much harder time getting things done, it seems, when I tell myself, "These are the things I need to get done").
And another bit might be that the effort exerted to do "the things that need doing" left me too tired to do "the things I at least kinda/sorta want to do" (and really, me "getting out more" is at least as important as me doing the dishes and picking up about the house. Maybe even a little more important).
It's depressing that so little exertion leaves me so...debilitated (This is basic shit - If this is a stretch, where does that leave me when it's time to "step up my game"?).
Speaking of "depressing"...this entry is depressing me, and not what I intended to write at all (Though I can't guarantee that "what I intended to write" wouldn't have been just as depressing...but at least it would have been "what I intended to write"); I want to delete it, but I'm not going to do that - instead, I think I'll just post it, without the typical Facebook/"Notify List" fanfare, and let those of you who find it find it.
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