Restless night
I hope this isn't a trend—restless nights. Sleeping has been my salvation and best skill during my crises period.
So why have I been awake since midnight, three and a half hours ago?
Many animated topics are charging up my mind:
1. The surreal nature of the Musk/Trump peace and isolation movement. Fascism believing it's worthy of the Nobel Peace Prize.
2. I have a broke 70 year old roommate who has no place to live and I can't figure out how to get her safely established without being ridiculously damaging to my own future. I have a history of hurting myself by being more generous than I can emotionally afford.
3. Similarly, my bi polar brother.
4. I'm working harder on new project at my company. We have AI, software development, governance, ERP, product roadmapping and premium customer engagement projects going on and they're fun and challenging. But why? I have no heirs.
5. My therapy work with Yael and my friendship discussions with Myles and Lucretia are rich and radical. I'm trying so hard to change myself, and while that work is frustratingly so, I know myself so much better than I ever have. I like the part of me that wants to withdraw from everything the best, and that scares and intrigues me.
6. My 30-year home will sell in the next 60 days and both the departure from NYC and the logistics of shutting down a thriving household is beyond my current bandwidth. I feel guilty about leaving, and defeated. Selling still feels like the failure of my marriage. Not helped by the characteristics of the actual divorce which hurt and trivialize me every moment of every day.
7. I know I can find peace in this moment. I enjoy journaling now. But I don't think I'm capable of overcoming anger towards my traumatizing and traumatized marriage in the past. Nor can I completely avoid fear and anxiety that I can't see a path that propels me toward goodness. So my trusty couch—afternoon naps and blanket wall staring—continues to draw me in. Lacking a vision, the safety of not moving is a wonderful, if sad, gift to myself. I have always served, and I have always moved. I have built and lived and grieved and created unique worlds for myself and others. Now I am alone and have no reason to step left, or right, or forward, or back. Movement is optional.
It's a lot. It's far more than I can manage by myself now. But I can always ignore it. I can go out for a short cross country ski in the California sunshine. I can make a meal for myself with the beautiful ingredients available here. I can ignore the mail, disconnect from worthless digital communities (could anything be more meaningless than Facebook?), procrastinate or ignore or quit projects or activities. I can find myself by buying time and by zooming my focus to 20,000 feet, both of which convert my anxiety into a collage. The blank spaces—my diseased relationship with my damaging ex-wife primarily, are immediately replaced by the shocking beauty of the mountains all around me. When I think about Mina I cannot see any beauty and I live with my own eternal horse blinders. Silly David.
So why have I been awake since midnight, three and a half hours ago?
Many animated topics are charging up my mind:
1. The surreal nature of the Musk/Trump peace and isolation movement. Fascism believing it's worthy of the Nobel Peace Prize.
2. I have a broke 70 year old roommate who has no place to live and I can't figure out how to get her safely established without being ridiculously damaging to my own future. I have a history of hurting myself by being more generous than I can emotionally afford.
3. Similarly, my bi polar brother.
4. I'm working harder on new project at my company. We have AI, software development, governance, ERP, product roadmapping and premium customer engagement projects going on and they're fun and challenging. But why? I have no heirs.
5. My therapy work with Yael and my friendship discussions with Myles and Lucretia are rich and radical. I'm trying so hard to change myself, and while that work is frustratingly so, I know myself so much better than I ever have. I like the part of me that wants to withdraw from everything the best, and that scares and intrigues me.
6. My 30-year home will sell in the next 60 days and both the departure from NYC and the logistics of shutting down a thriving household is beyond my current bandwidth. I feel guilty about leaving, and defeated. Selling still feels like the failure of my marriage. Not helped by the characteristics of the actual divorce which hurt and trivialize me every moment of every day.
7. I know I can find peace in this moment. I enjoy journaling now. But I don't think I'm capable of overcoming anger towards my traumatizing and traumatized marriage in the past. Nor can I completely avoid fear and anxiety that I can't see a path that propels me toward goodness. So my trusty couch—afternoon naps and blanket wall staring—continues to draw me in. Lacking a vision, the safety of not moving is a wonderful, if sad, gift to myself. I have always served, and I have always moved. I have built and lived and grieved and created unique worlds for myself and others. Now I am alone and have no reason to step left, or right, or forward, or back. Movement is optional.
It's a lot. It's far more than I can manage by myself now. But I can always ignore it. I can go out for a short cross country ski in the California sunshine. I can make a meal for myself with the beautiful ingredients available here. I can ignore the mail, disconnect from worthless digital communities (could anything be more meaningless than Facebook?), procrastinate or ignore or quit projects or activities. I can find myself by buying time and by zooming my focus to 20,000 feet, both of which convert my anxiety into a collage. The blank spaces—my diseased relationship with my damaging ex-wife primarily, are immediately replaced by the shocking beauty of the mountains all around me. When I think about Mina I cannot see any beauty and I live with my own eternal horse blinders. Silly David.
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