Hello and good morning. It’s Thursday, and so it’s time for my traditional Thursday blog post, which is only different from the rest of my now-daily posts in that I’ve made the title out of an altered quote from Shakespeare, and I’ve used some form of this “Hello and good morning” opening.
I’m not sure what to write about today. It is the forty-second “anniversary”* of the death of John Lennon, but I dealt with that on Tuesday, and I don’t really want to revisit that horrible event now. I don’t have much currently to add to yesterday’s blog post about the Alzheimer’s article I read, and in any case, it doesn’t seem to have been particularly well-received. I had the feeling that I wasn’t writing well yesterday, but it was hard to be sure; nevertheless, I think that must have been the case.
This week has felt terribly long already, and a large part of that must be because I feel that I’ve had even poorer nights’ sleeps than I usually do, which is saying a lot. I took half a Benadryl again last night, hoping it would help me sleep better, but as is often the case, I get rapidly diminishing returns from such things. I did end up not getting on the earliest possible train this morning, and am instead waiting for my “usual” one, but that was because during the night I was up so often and finally only got a little bit of sleep at the very end of the night (for me). I nevertheless still woke up four minutes before my alarm.
I’m sure I’ve said this before, but I really do wish I would come down with some rather severe infection or other illness that takes everything out of my hands and makes it impossible for me even to try to continue. The people at work have no apparent qualm with just shuffling in late, or leaving early, just doing things at their own pace, with no apparent trouble from their consciences, but I can’t seem to work that way.
I keep plodding along for as long as my body is able to move, and it’s just maddening. I’ve occasionally wondered, in passing, why Sisyphus would bother to keep pushing his stupid boulder up to the top of his hill, when it would just roll down again every time, but I seem to be no different. I’m not doing anything more productive than that mythical being, even though I’m actually real—as far as I can tell—and yet I keep on moving, not getting anywhere or accomplishing anything or getting any real joy out of the process.
Of course, it’s possible in my case to take matters into my own hands—there are no Olympians exerting supernatural force upon me to keep me pushing my metaphorical boulder—and that often seems like the preferable option, but people always say, whether to me directly, or with just general advice for everyone, that it’s a bad idea to kill oneself. And, of course, the biological organism is programmed, in a sense, to avoid death when possible.
I imagine that if I could just get one good, uninterrupted, natural night’s rest, I might feel differently. I might feel different. I don’t even remember when the last time was that I had a decent night’s sleep, but the last good night’s sleep (that I can remember clearly) happened in the latter half of the 1990s. It was amazing. I recall once musing, in a discussion with my then-therapist, that it was no wonder that vampires live forever—they get a full day’s sleep every day, and have no choice to do otherwise. It was an amusing thought, but it expressed sentiments that haven’t changed much since then, specifically that I really feel tired all the time and wish I could just get some good rest.
Apparently such sleep problems are quite common in people with ASD of one kind or another (the neurologic kind, not the cardiologic kind, though I did have that one as well). I guess it’s good to know that it’s not an uncommon thing to have happen, but since I’ve yet to encounter anyone who has any useful recommendations on how to counter the dysfunction, it also perversely points more toward the likelihood that I will get no relief from chronic insomnia while I’m alive. Of course, I will get no actual relief from it even when I’m dead, but at least I won’t be awake and tired anymore. My back pain will also not be there, nor will my tinnitus, nor the general feeling of weirdness and alienness that I carry around always.
‘Tis indeed a consummation devoutly to be wished. And I have no ghost-induced quest to try to bring my father’s killer to justice or vengeance or whatever, since my father died of a form of intestinal cancer, and my mother died from similarly natural causes. Nor do I have any other worthwhile quest, and I don’t seriously fear any dreams to come in the proverbial undiscovered country.
I wish someone out there could give me some kind of message of comfort or release, or perhaps both. I don’t mean just the traditional, standard exhortations to keep going, to endure, that there are people who care about you, that there are people who would be sad if you were gone, all that fuckery. That’s almost like telling Sisyphus, “Keep rolling your boulder, we like watching you do it, it’s inspiring and motivating for us, even though it’s miserable for you.”
Okay, it’s not quite that bad. I know that people are trying to do what they think is right, trying to show support even when there are no real, deep reasons for them to give. I merely fear that there aren’t such reasons because I’m well versed in the many versions of the standard arguments, having partaken of them starting at least in my early teenage years, when I can first remember feeling this way. The discussions don’t seem to change; I haven’t encountered any new arguments or ideas on the subject in years, probably decades. It’s more or less all clichés, though I’ve no doubt that they are well-intended ones.
But I am so fucking tired. I’m tired of trying to keep fitting in, in a world in which I don’t feel like I belong, in which the people I love don’t tend to want me around—not too close, anyway—not if they can help it, not for too long. If they all have such a hard time putting up with me past a certain point, just imagine how I feel about it. I loathe myself, but I can’t get away from myself, not even through the temporary respite of a good night’s sleep.
Oh, well, I don’t expect any answers from anyone. I don’t think those answers exist, though I don’t dismiss the possibility in principle. And I don’t recognize anyone with authority over my existence, or with superior expertise in the matter—I’ll be persuaded by argument and evidence, but not by any argument from so-called authority, even if it’s from someone who is smarter than I. If they really do know, then they should be able to convey their reasons; information is information. I’m certainly not going to take anyone’s (or anything’s) word for it.
Still, I’m keeping going anyway for now, because the programming is built that way, damn it. It’s so frustrating. “Only meeting strangers, always losing friends; every new beginning always ends…creeping slowly forward, falling back. Nothing ever stops, but nothing really goes. Is there any reason? No one knows.”
Ah, well. I can’t find wisdom by quoting my own song, which shouldn’t surprise me. If there were such wisdom for me to find in my own thoughts, I would already have it.
Whatever. I hope you all have a good remainder of the week, and of the year, and that you have wonderful holiday times, whatever holidays you may celebrate. I hope you get to spend time with the people you love and the people who love you. I hope you have peace and joy.
*That seems like an inappropriate term, but I can’t think of a better one right now. If anyone has any suggestions for something preferable, please leave a comment below.