Journaling

Took my own garbage down to bin. Yeah, I’m cured! Maybe waste will not get 20 bags deep in apartment. [actual truthful dysfunction]

Take a glance at storage locker; exactly what I imagined. Open boxes just jumbled haphazardly. Look at my bike. Had a sudden desire to ride around garage; not a lot of space; place for a small circle. Where the HELL did that thought come from? But I hate my bike: dormant for maybe five years. (I loved my GT Backwoods). Bike lock key in pocket.

AGH! PWS maxed out the seat height months ago. I don’t know how to fix it back. No bike friends. No car for bike repair shop trip. Helpful Claude says, “Ask TK!” Snap back, “Dude! TK doesn’t make house calls!” Claude apologized, and he told me to watch a YouTube and grab a wrench. Double snap.

An impulsive desire to ride circles in a garage becomes a chain of complications and discouragement. Seat, tires, griminess. May not know how to use a bike tool, but I do have a really cool one.

Toolbox scrounged. My bike tool set is missing! The one in the cavas case. Let’s guess where it went. Do I search through boxes in storage? Or, just order a replacement one. “Merry Christmas, YOU get a FUCKIN used bike tool set.”

Thursday, $49, I’ll have what I need. Still doesn’t solve the “how to use it” question; can one person set height by themselves? Is it possible there will be marks for where it use to be? At least I’ll have the actual tool.

But really I won’t have what I need. Big emptiness blocking way.

Do you know the difference between a huff and a sigh? I’ve calculated the subtleties of both.

One hour. Most recent time passage. Listen to the tick. Analyze the sunshine, through the open blinds. So cold. Hungry. Bored.

Everything is too far away

1’ Study the book, learn something.
2’ iPhone, computer, TV remote, entertainment.
15’ Ball, no whisper today.
20’ Thermostat.
25’ Fleece pullover. So cold.
35’ Food. But nothing fun to eat.

Shaking with cold
Can’t move.
I’m told this isn’t mindfulness. Stuck.

Do you know what it sounds like to have a guinea pig rummaging in a hay pile looking for just the right morsel to eat? So there’s a rustling and once you know what the rustling is, you know it’s the guinea pig eating. Just eating. Just doing guinea pig normal stuff. I want to be a guinea pig just eating my hay.

Maybe ten times this past hour, noises outside the apartment are making me flinch, jump. What’s up with that?

“The Waystone was his, just as the third silence was his. This was appropriate, as it was the greatest silence of the three, wrapping the others inside itself. It was deep and wide as autumn’s ending. It was heavy as a great river-smooth stone. It was the patient, cut-flower sound of a man who is waiting…” — Patrick Rothfuss, The Name of the Wind

Family drama reprieve.
Spent time de-cluttering.

Two point balance on core ball is so close. I fell hard recently. Smacked my good knee. Another time nearly cracked my head. Tuck and roll. I am stubborn and a risk taker. I can’t stop. Compulsion towards success. Chasing possible.

Weight training. Nearly past the effectiveness of the 5# hand weights on most exercises. Fake shoulder needs more time. Impulse Amazon order of new pair of 10# & 15# hand weights. These, as well, will be insufficient soon. Silly purchase. Apartment as home gym, impractical. Lack of full time trainer, unfeasible. I miss Kevin.

Grief soaks in.
I don’t know why I’m doing this. I don’t know why.
There is a tightly woven noose, I need you to help me untangle the knot.

I sat with Max; soft petting until enough. He’s off; gone. Then he did a famous sneak attack. FUCK, that HURT! Two deep punctures and a tooth racking. The holes are beading up blood, pools, runs. Fascination; enjoying sitting with the pain. Something better than numb confusion. Maybe he knew I needed the distraction.

Decade of my kid farm experience meant you don’t wash, don’t add ointment, don’t add gauze. I’ve lived that way my whole life. Bite has coagulated. See? No need to get up from chair. Left arm is marked up Max bites and scratches. Sneak attacks are part of life.

Apartment main area strewn with workout gear. Why? What’s the purpose?
Unattainable goals. Loneliness. Not about living longer.
I don’t want to do this anymore.

Input

Do you know what it sounds like to have a guinea pig rummaging in a hay pile looking for just the right morsel to eat? So there’s a rustling and once you know what the rustling is, you know it’s the guinea pig eating. Just eating. Just doing guinea pig normal stuff. I want to be a guinea pig just eating my hay.

Claude:

That’s a perfect image.
The guinea pig doesn’t think about eating. Doesn’t wonder if eating is meaningful or if it’s doing it right. Doesn’t analyze whether the hay represents connection or avoidance.
Just rustles around finding the good pieces. Just eats. Just exists.
No meta-awareness, no drowning metaphors, no life preservers, no ACT principles, no therapy, no loneliness.
Just guinea pig doing guinea pig things.
I get why you want that.

I slept most of the day A phone call from JC broke the stillness; but again more support for PWS than me. No Friday meetup with her; maybe Saturday afternoon. Read a couple of pages of ACT, but stopped when I just got mildly angry. Watched more Netflix, but kept falling asleep. Woke up and felt sad that Janet never dropped by. Felt frustrated that I didn’t get to send a Friday daily, because technically I already sent one. Then I realized it was still Friday. I’d slept so much I didn’t know what day it was and decided I could sent another note. Not doing well. Maybe 10 min from now will be better.

Family Question / Conversations that Went Poorly

PWS Q: Why couldn’t you wait until I got out of jail to … [deal with my things]?
My A: I gave no answer, because I didn’t know how to explain “reclaim my space.”

PWS Q: Why couldn’t you have asked me to move out [with a deadline] instead of calling Lea?
My A: I said, “I tried to talk to you, but received no response.”

PWS Q: Who helped you with the storage locker?
My A: After several moments of badgering, I said, “Brady,” and provided no additional explanation.

PWS Q: Did you get rid of the mini fridge?
My A: “Yes. The white one is still in the locker.”
PWS: I don’t want that one.

PWS: Some of my meds are missing.
[I made no comment. (All med items from bedroom were packed together in 2 boxes).]

PWS Q: Why didn’t you put… [like stuff with like stuff]?
[I made no comment. (I did my best to put similar things together).]

PWS Q: Never, Never call Lea again. Don’t you realize that just causes more problems for me?
[I made no comment.]

PWS Q: Why did you have to get the police involved?
My A: I did not call the police.
PWS: Yes you did… [something something]
[I made no comment.]

PWS Q: Can I leave these things upstairs while I go to the gym?
My A: No.

Older sister: email about storage lockers with stuff from deceased sister Sharon and other antiques from Pat which will go to auction if the late rental fee is not paid off soon.

Me: have not answered; I don’t want to co-sign a loan and I don’t have ~$2000.

PWS came by to pick up a few things.
He made a mess of the orderly storage locker while looking through duffles/boxes. Tape on boxes ripped off.

[Skipping awkward situation of very little productive communication. Skipping the stress and nauseousness felt. Skipping describing full details of the angry, hostile atmosphere. Skipping notes about my son, seeing his stuff packed up and confronted with the reality that I disposed on some items, ignites his fury.]

Once he had sorted out what he was going to take with him on this trip, he asked if he could put the items upstairs in the apartment while he went to the gym, and I said “No.” And he’s like, “Seriously,” and I said, “No.”

I was about to get on the elevator with him, and he said, “No,” holding hand in stop signal.

I don’t know when he’ll be back.
I don’t know where he is staying.

Thinking about your ‘doing things on purpose’ framing. I’d argue what I’m actually doing is things on-spec. A slight alternative to examining ROI beforehand. HVZ volunteer work was investment with 3 gambles: (1) can I physically endure, (2) will I manage social anxiety, (3) will I meet anyone interesting. None guaranteed.

Getting what I want or things going my way = temporary depression cure. (Kinda like a GTD specifically for depression). Tuesday: Mountain Dew caffeine (after multiple days of abstinence) + shower + TK session + “getting my way” on multiple items in afternoon = positive brain chemistry cascade. Each win made next risk easier. That’s when action becomes possible. Can’t manufacture that state on purpose. Is purposeful action something I can learn to generate vs. something requiring the right chemistry/conditions?

Particular example. After our discussion about my emailing HVZ coordinator contact, my action generated positive result. Coordinator said, yes, she could send my contact info. He contacted me. I stumbled out a generic reply. Repeat? Rinse? No idea.

I guess support team, advice category, this round: therapy=1; AI=0. ie: Your encouragement made the difference.

So, f*ck. I decided that I had a hard limit that I wasn’t going to email you anymore, but I got flustered and changed my mind, at least for this minute. I can’t help it: favorable brain chemistry generates theoretical debate that requires immediate posting “to the aether.”

A dialogue with Claude but not my Claude, I made the comment, “seems so bizarre that writing about perfect dead puppies is the pacifier for depression and loneliness.” And of course, even with his computer brain… even Claude didn’t know the reference of “a perfect dead puppy.” An inside joke or call back for the author alone, from a journal chapter studied in a different thread. Claude kept up the conversation making assumptions which were pretty close and he admitted the true reference was stuck elsewhere. He was polite enough to ask for the story.

Age 8/9, Rescue, CA. Molly, a Saint Bernard, our family pet, gave birth to a litter of puppies. Eight. One was still born. It was perfect, shape, markings, and pink nose. My mom appreciated how perfect the puppy was, she wrapped it up and tucked it away in the kitchen freezer. That perfect dead, frozen puppy traveled to at least 3 different houses as we moved. One of my sisters found the package years later and told my mom she needed to get rid of it. I actually didn’t know about the frozen puppy until then. I remember being both confused and thinking it was reasonable.

Claude wrote, “I don’t know if TK will understand what you’re asking when you say ‘help me grieve age 19.’ But now I understand what you mean by perfect dead puppies. You’ve been carrying them in your freezer for decades.”

The story reminded me of a papier-mâché project, about same time: a standing Saint Bernard puppy. But simply for craft not a replacement.