Half-Assin' It Since '72

“No one lives their life doing all the things they say they should.”

I suck at everything.

Let me start again.

I think I suck at everything.  Just two minutes ago I realized I wasn’t going to exercise today, and I had even planned a time to go.  I don’t have a valid reason for not going, but I am a little beat after a long day and that excuse will just have to do this time.   I also want to start fleshing out my book idea, and those ideas are coming slow in the last two days.  I look around the house and I see no less than 20 projects I need to finish. I have a hole in my garage ceiling, kitchen remodeling is almost done, the yard is a mess, I have four books I’m reading at the same time, and I still have tax forms on my desk screaming at me about home much of a slob I am.

I know it takes some self-love to let this shit go.  I can do that now, even on crappy days.  And, I would never write an essay about how tough it is to get through the day and finish all your chores.  That’s for daytime TV and grocery checkout magazines.  The feeling I am describing is just not caring about what you’re doing.  It’s darker, more sinister and scarier.     

A lack of passion is that familiar signpost of depression.  The dark and heavy afghan of depression robs you of your will.  I can say that I am not fighting the beast right now.  However, a lifetime of living under its shadow has left me with some nasty habits. 

For most of my adult life, I have been an exemplary employee.  I am usually relied on to accomplish tasks on my own, and I usually have a decent rapport with the boss, owner, or corporate lackey in charge of my comings and goings.  I have had the adult responsibility of bringing home some kind of bacon since I was the wee age of 21.  Mouths to feed.  Mortgage to pay.  Hair to lose.

Inside my head, I was a giant pile of who-gives-a-fuck.  I did the work, showed up on time, was honest and dependable. But I never experienced one good day of work.  I just could not manufacture an ounce of pride. I could never buy into what the boss and the company were selling.  I’m not cool.  I am somehow broken.

So, I was a stand-up Joe at the job, but I was no go-getter. I kept my head down, sometimes literally,  and punched in and out on time. I can blame anxiety and depression and being a young dad, but the truth is I could not find a reason to excel.  I half-assed it all.  When you half-ass your 40 hour a week job, you can easily slip into half-assing your entire life. It becomes easy to quit things. It is so easy to let messes accumulate, stop caring about yourself, leave the house without deodorant.  It’s easy to cut corners and you forget what that sensation of a job well done is supposed to feel like.  I had a few of those sensations in my college classes.  It was nice.

I work for myself now.  I have a client, and I recently caught a little shit because my work was getting sloppy.  It’s fixable, and I’m sure I can right the ship.  In the past, this news would have sent me spiraling.  I hated when I screwed up at a job I couldn’t give two shits about.  From the outside, it makes perfect sense that I would screw up at a job where I had no focus. But, I would just feel like a super-loser; I couldn’t even correctly perform at a job I felt wasn’t worth my time. But I was at the job.  And this was my time as well as the company’s time. I couldn’t put that together.

There was no freak out after I heard from the client.  Which is good news. I also am nursing new ideas for a book, and things are taking shape.  I remember feeling passionate about the first novel I wrote, and how it was as if I carried a little backpack around with me; I could fill it with every dumb idea I came up with and I could sort it all out when I got home like Halloween candy. The key word is passionate, right?  I’ve never had a damn thing published and it irks the hell out of me.  There is a passion in my chest for this.  There is a fight.  It could be all ego and I’m doomed for another disappointment, and it is likely that I will fail, but I still have to do it.  That’s what passion does to you. 

None of those jobs ever ignited anything inside me.  They were a means to an end.  I judged myself and all the residual half-assing it caused by my failures at those jobs.  Jobs I didn’t like.  It is so very corny to repeat the notion that you have to find something you are passionate about.  Most people would like to make money at it.  Yeah, that would be sweet. But I’m willing to bet most of us will never make a nickel off of our passions, or at least not enough to retire on. But you still have to do it. Its passion...it’s kind of an asshole.

So I’m screwed.  This is my passion. Typing letters and symbols to express thoughts.  I love to do it and when I’m on a roll I feel like I am exactly where I am supposed to be.  Everything else, outside of my personal relationships, is basically a waste of my time.   

Except exercise.  Yes, I’ll go tomorrow.

Today. I Tried. To Slow....My Life Down

Well, they're definitely not in  a hurry...

Last year, I wrote about my internal clock and how it is set to maximum speed.  It is still a problem, and until I can tackle it effectively, I will still face the same problems, no matter how well I think I’m doing with my life, career, relationships, health and a dozen other things.  My instinct is to rush through everything, savoring nothing, and the result is, well, a friggin’ mess.

So I’m trying to slow my life down.  I learned an excellent maxim about work: Slow is smooth and smooth is fast.  The more you take your time and complete the task carefully and deliberately, the less actual time it will take in the long run.  Fewer mistakes, less frustration.  Less hair loss.

I’ve been working on weight loss for a few months.  My medications, unfortunately prevent any quick outcome.  I will have to do this the old fashioned way.  More exercise, eating less and patience. And even that will not guarantee rewards.  I’ve accepted that. But, I have to actually eat slower, too, and that is proving to be quite the bitch.

We bought a new couch recently so it’s another good excuse to not wolf down anything in front of a TV.  We have a table with chairs, and that’s what it is there for.  So now, my distractions are gone.  My task now is to physically chew and swallow slower.  Holy crap.  Eating food, even good stuff you are happy to eat, is pretty boring when you chew it like a cow chews cud. Dinner is now an insurance seminar or an HR meeting.  When you have others around, at least some conversation can get you through it, but when you have to eat alone…it’s all you can do to not fall asleep in your salad greens.  Longer eating time equals feeling more full, so slower is better. But what a snooze.

Time perception itself is also a problem.  I have a job where I need to occasionally make appointments that require me to anticipate traffic and travel times.  From the outside , not a major issue.  But a life of anxiety and people-pleasing has made it a mortal sin to be late to anything.  It is the height of inconsideration.  In the real world, shit happens and people are late from time to time.  I was insistent when I started making these appointments that I would give them a specific time; a specific minute, when I would be there.  Later I learned is acceptable to give a window of three hours when you set the appointment! Three hours!  That’s a Lord of the Rings movie!  I certainly can slow my life down and cool my anxiety by giving a very fair and reasonable half-hour window.  Less stress, less hurrying.

I also have to think slower.  That is probably not the best way to describe it.  I have to organize my thoughts and be perfectly content with setting one string of thoughts down in favor for another.  I can simply say: No.  There are so many thoughts in our heads and we get overwhelmed.  You have to remember that these are just thoughts that take up no actual real estate.  They can only reside in the space we give them.  I have creative thoughts and I’m working, so I have to concentrate on work stuff now.  I’ll jot some notes down in a notebook and move on.  The same goes for the reverse.  I’m writing this junk, and I have work thoughts.  They’re not going anywhere. Make a note, and get back to the fun stuff.  You’d be amazed what you can control with the parade of invasive thoughts that march through your brain right before you fall asleep.  Jesus, why am I thinking of a game of Risk I played in 1987?  How did that get in there?  And why am I now breaking down my favorite songs in the REM catalogue?  If you need to sleep, practice saying No.  It’s not always effective, but it’s worth trying to extend that sense of slowing things down to bedtime.

The true reason I am looking at this now is that I want to try novel writing again.  I’ve been sitting on an idea and a handful of notes and unfinished chapters for a while, and I’ve just read a novel that got me excited about the long, arduous, painful, thankless, and mostly lonely art of writing long form.  To write a novel is so different from anything else.  It’s like working out.  You have to a little bit each day for a very long time and eventually you will have results.  It can’t be rushed or the process will suffer.  Everything must be slowed down.  The thinking, the planning, the organization.  But, again, why am I in a hurry in the first place?

This is a lifestyle change.  (You know, the hardest changes to make…) I talk fast, type fast, handwrite fast.  I wash the dishes fast and vacuum fast.  All of those things I usually perform at a piss-poor level.  I am so accustomed to rushing that doing the job well is just foreign.  Everything in life was just something to get through and endure.  It’s not Zen.  I’m not present for anything, whether the events are memorable or mundane.  It’s all a blur.

All I can control is what happens today.  Like writing this essay.  I did my best to take my time and the next one I will do a little better. 

Now I have to go sip my decaf like the Crawley’s sip afternoon tea.

Are You a Serious Person?

            This one came to me from an unexpected source, the so-so CBS drama Madam Secretary.  (We’re parents in our forties and it’s on, ok?)  A discussion between the titular character and one of her aides resulted in the question: “Are you a serious person? Because I only want to work with serious people” Or, something close to that.  The aide responded that he was indeed a serous person and up to the job she had given him.  That minor subplot aside, that question stuck with me.  Are you a serious person?  I feel that I should say yes; that it implies maturation, professionalism, and a level of respect.  But, if I’m honest, there is no way in God’s green earth that I am a serious person.

            I should set some parameters here.  This has nothing to do with ability; it is what you value.  A serious person could very well handle the challenges of the upper echelons of government, business, academia, scientific research, professional bowling…  But, what it takes to get to the top is strict adherence to your priorities.  Sacrifice.  We all sacrifice something.  How much are you willing to sacrifice to get that thing you want?  Serious people know how to sacrifice. A lot.

            I often wondered if I was a lazy lump of crap.  Mental illness aside, I just never felt the motivation to strive to reach the top of anything.  If you take judgment out of it, you realize most people in human history don’t reach the top.  Only the few serious (and many times lucky) people make it and sustain that type of life guidance counselors told you about. 

            There is the thought about values. This notion of reaching the top or being a serious person is not necessarily a worldwide belief.  Some of its western thought, some of its just American.  Do French or Japanese people think this way? How about Ghana or Argentina or Canada?  Americans come from somewhere else, and there always seems to be a mixed bag or DNA and traditions that float around in our heads from the old country.  I am not a Protestant.  I have no lineage to pilgrims or eighteenth-century landowners.  ‘Work, work, work or you won’t get into heaven’ was never part of my bag, baby.  If anything, I probably have more in common with my French and Italian roots.  Europeans, physically toiling outside in the sunshine, sipping wine and eating insanely good food four times a day.  They value living and having relationships with what they work with all day.  Work to live, instead of live to work, and all that.

            If you break it down, I value two things above all else in my life.  Relationships and creative thought.  I love my family and friends, and I love chatting, reading and writing about interesting things.  Those values do not support a serious person.  I did not mention hard work, frugality, business sense, logic, competitiveness, duty, or a sense of purpose.  Those are the values of a serious person.  Or at least, they are on their list somewhere. 

            I am a dad and a husband.  I am a guy who has had a bunch of jobs, and will probably have a few more.  I don’t care about putting my stamp on anything.  My deepest regret is that I have not learned how to socialize effectively and am missing out on chatting and spending time with other people.  And, I wish I was better at guitar. It’s probably for the best that I’m not serious. There has to be some of us that aren’t, right? A world full of serious, responsible people?  How boring would that be?

I Do Not Know What To Say To You

Christmas tree farm, Amity, OR

When I’m in the mood to write blog stuff, I think of one of two questions: What do I love? and What brings me pain? (Almost no one reads the love ones.) I thumb through the file cabinets in my brain to see what I’m been chewing on, and eventually I’ll come up with something.

I think it’s important to write about this particular subject because I am still in the middle of it.  I am still in the suffering stage and there is no bright light on the horizon.  Most of the time, these little personal essays are mini-survival stories or thoughts on fiction and football and nerd stuff. This time, I am currently mired in the muck.  Whenever I talk to a therapist again, this will be at the top of my list.  Just as it was five years ago when I started taking care of myself. Haven’t been able to do jack about it.

I want to meet people.  I want to socialize.  I want a new friend before I die.

Kurt Vonnegut explained why there were so many divorces in the last half of the last century. Americans are in a process of isolating themselves. Simply put, each person in a marriage is just one person.  We are wired to be in a community.  One that starts with our partners, family, and kids and then extends to others.  I can be very happy with my wife and my marriage and my children, as well as the small group of friends I’ve kept in touch with for 20 years or so, but my problem exists outside of that.

They used to call people like me shy.  I get it. It’s easy to pin down. The obvious answer is I don’t know the right thing to say or I don’t have a lot of experience being social.  Make sense.  I just don’t think that’s my problem.  The truth is, I don’t have the experience and I don’t know what to say, but there is a lot of crap other than simple social maneuvering and chatting techniques.

Now, I’ve met people through many workplace scenarios. I have had conversations and workplace camaraderie to be sure.  I think I fair rather well.  It’s that next level that I’ve never reached. It’s the doing things after work hours or on the weekends type of stuff I’ve never done.  I don’t know who I am out there.  On the job, I’m valued as someone who helps you get through a shit day.  Out there, where all those rules don’t apply, I don’t know who I am or what I would say. 

It’s not just work.  I have lived in this house for nearly eight years and I don’t know any of my neighbors.  Not even their names.  My last house I lived in for nine years and I knew only first names of two neighbors, and they initiated it.  I don’t know how to talk to grocery clerks.  Waitresses.  Assholes at the music store.  Even if I am feeling extroverted and wacky and I manage to talk back to someone who is being friendly, my mind analyzes if this person is a potential friend or not.  I feel myself getting emotional; then eventually bummed out that it’s just a random exchange and not the beginning of buds for life.

I think I speak softly, too. When some guy at the store says: “Go Hawks!” when he sees my Seahawks t-shirt, I reply “That’s right!”  But I think I say it in such a whispered tone that the guy thinks I’ve ignored him.  People seem to not see me a lot.  I get bumped into. 

My therapist though it was weird that I could do open mics but I didn’t know what to say to one person.  People are terrified of going on stage for any reason, but that’s nothing.  Face to face with a stranger, having a conversation, where you can read their emotions and body language, and they’re reading yours and having the same thoughts in their heads? Give me stand-up anytime. 

If I were more spiritual, I would say that I am blessed.  I have love in my life; I am embracing my health and my health problems.  I am fine with being 42.  But this complete void in my life, the excitement of new people and conversations and experiences, is unavoidable.  My wife has the same void, but she does not feel it like I do.  It doesn’t bother her.  I am the one who has to extend his hand and make this happen.  I am the one who has to hide his obvious desperation to make friends.

Pure incompetence would be preferable to being dumbfounded.  I’d rather be a boorish douche or a chatty hipster than just an empty suit that doesn’t say anything.  At least I’d have something to work with.  Shit man, I know I’m funny.  I’m smart enough to understand an intellectual discussion and nerdy enough to get quirky references.  I’m opinionated.  I have a lot of things to say.  All that simply rattling around in my brain is meaningless.   Without the proper entrance into someone else’s personal space, I’m like a street preacher or creepy old man.

I usually like to have a few sentences to wrap things up at the end.  Without them, these essays feel unfinished.  But, I truly have nothing to tie this together.  I do not know how to tackle this problem and I have no potential strategies.  It is a huge issue with tiny little everyday solutions.  I guess it is truthful to say that I am hopeful and that I am sure there is a way out of this for me.  I just have to walk through the right door.