It's newsletter time, but I'm not going to create a newsletter when I only have two subscribers. I was stupid to think that anyone would want to read what I had to say.
An incident that happened on Friday made me realize just how vulnerable I really am and how precarious my position in the world is.
My car overheated and died at the junction of County Road 77 and Highway 14. If you don't know where that is, suffice it to say that it's in the middle of nowhere.
AAA sent a tow truck and I rode with the driver to the shop but I had nobody I could call to come and pick me up because I don't know anyone where I live.
I realized that I'm hearing my mother saying "I told you so" in my mind. She didn't want my son and me to move out here. She wanted us to move in with her, refusing to acknowledge how miserable every single one of us would have been if we had agreed. She even demanded that we sell the house and move in with her after the fact. I calmly stated what a bad idea that would be, but I obviously felt guilty.
It's scary realizing how precarious everything is. Some people naturally excel at making connections. I'm not one of those people. I find it very difficult to make connections. But a person really can't live without some kind of support system. There is virtually no support system for people living in rural areas.
I've found it difficult to write since this incident. The same thing happened when I was caught in a flood in 2013. A huge wave rolling out of a field where there normally was no water slammed into the side of my car. I had PTSD and survivor's guilt. What right did I have to be doing something as frivolous as writing when others lost their property and their lives? What right did I have to be alive? Why was someone as worthless as I am spared when much better people died?
I don't believe in (or at least don't worship) the Church God that I was brought up with. However, I also don't believe that everything that happens is just a random coincidence. I think that circumstances are a blend of fate or karma and coincidence. Perhaps I'm simply choosing to believe this way as otherwise the Universe is either mean or it's arbitrary and either way, it gives me the creeps.
(That last sentence is courtesy of Calvin and Hobbes.)
I've tried to resign myself to the fact that my writing is just unpaid therapy. Nobody besides me likes what I write. I'm never going to sell anything.
I've tried to stop writing, but every time I try, everything else goes to shit. I become severely depressed and unmotivated. I know everyone would be happier if I'd just stopped writing and participating in various writing events and blog hops.
I'm not someone that people want around. I'm that person that people allow in if I show up at a gathering because they feel the need to be polite. Nobody actually wants me there. Nobody is interested in what I have to say, they just feel sorry for me. It's horrible to go through life knowing this.
I emailed this letter to the local church (which I feel guilty about, considering my agnostic state) and to the mayor. I don't know if it will amount to anything but I've put it out there.
After finding myself stranded on the corner of CR-77 and Highway 14 when my car overheated yesterday, I had the thought that it would be a good idea if there was a network of people that could be contacted if something like this happens. The only neighbor I knew at all moved away so now I'm left without anyone I can contact for help. I'm the only one in my household who can drive or has a (usually) working car.
I don't quite know how to start building such a network. I'm very shy and have a hard time talking to people that I don't know. If anyone likes my idea and would be interested in helping me implement it, I would be grateful for the help. I put up notices at the general store and post office.
I'm happy to volunteer myself to be available to pick people up in emergencies with the caveat that I can't drive after dark. I have night blindness due to cataracts. Also, I won't drive on major highways such as I-25 or I-80. Other than that, I am open to helping.
I then included my phone number and also my address. In a town of 137 people, I'm fine with people knocking on the door to talk to me.
So, the conclusion I've come to is that I have to keep writing because otherwise, everything else falls apart, i.e. I can't even make myself do anything but lie around watching videos and hating myself. Meals won't be made and dishes won't get washed.
I could just keep my shitty literary efforts to myself and spare others the misery of reading the crap that falls out of my head, but there's a part of me that needs to pretend that someone out there will like what they read and that maybe it will make a difference to them the way the writings of the likes of Poe, Lovecraft, Bierce, and King have made a difference to me.
When I was young, I believed that one day I'd be a FAMUS RITER like Stephen King. When I hit my middle years I became aware that at best I'd achieve posthumous fame as Lovecraft did. (In fairness, Lovecraft's work did have an audience during his lifetime even if he never made much money from his efforts).
Now I realize that when I'm gone, everything I've worked on over the years will be lost and it won't matter. I hate this thought. I try to ignore it because otherwise, I don't have any motivation at all.
And that is my shitty, worthless weekend update on my shitty, worthless life.
I guess I'll find something to stuff in my gob.
I really wish I could just stop eating altogether. It's such an inconvenience and when I'm depressed, nothing tastes good anyway.
Cie the Loser