Another month gone by. Spring has kicked into high gear. Not necessarily the weather part of it, but
certainly the time part. Suddenly everything is green, fruit blossoms
have burst and fallen to drifts of pink snow on the sidewalks, daffodils are a
distant memory. The garden center at
Fred Meyer has gone from echoing emptiness to full to the rafters with all manner
of green and flowering things in the wink of an eye. It all just seems to be going too fast for me
this year. Increasingly too fast with
every passing year, as a matter of fact.
We have been busy with fixing
up the Junction City building to get it ready for restaurant licensing. Every weekend for the past two months, the
husband drives the 100 miles south to put in a couple of full days painting,
scraping, plumbing and wiring. And I
have been spending weekends plus. So far, we’ve torn out a sink, had a new sink
installed (in a different room), torn down walls, scraped mold, painstakingly
scratched old paint off of floors, created a real bathroom out of what once
could be barely called a pot to piss in, balanced on ten-foot ladders to paint,
scrub and plaster.
All things that could have
been done much more handily by a group of folks twenty or thirty years our
juniors. But we did it. We had to, actually. Seems that business is so great for small
contractors that they have no interest in getting paid to do the things we need
done. So we pulled on our big-girl and
big-boy pants and did it ourselves. The
results are acceptable. Honestly,
judging by the quality of some of the work we DID manage to contract out, I’d
say doing it ourselves saved us money while not necessarily compromising the
quality of the work. It’s not a
professional reno job by any means…but it looks a helluva lot better than it
did. I’m kicking myself, now, for not
taking “before” pictures.
I mention this by way of
explanation for why I do not come here and write these days. But I know that’s just a smoke screen. When I was exhausted unto catatonia in the
restaurant days, I came here with my thoughts and frustrations, and even threw
in a political commentary here and there.
No, it’s not that I’m too busy. I’m
just wrestling with demons that I’m pretty sure no one is interested in reading
about. And I guess I’m not interested in
writing about them, anymore. I’m so done
with clawing at the same walls of depression, fear and anxiety that have
surrounded me for more than fifty years.
There are times I feel like I
have victory. Like the walls have
finally eroded away and I am free. This
is not one of those times.
And the hell of it is, I’m
sick to death of thinking I’m free at last and then figuring out that, no, the
walls are not gone. I’ve just been too
busy or engaged to pay them any mind for awhile. But they never go away. And at this precise moment, following a
winter of illness and aimlessness and loss, the walls are looking as tall and stout as
ever. And I’m SO tired of
them. I hardly have the strength or the
drive to scratch even a tiny toehold into the shortest one.
Of course, the answer is to
get busy and engaged again. I’ve
recently come to realize my options in that direction are severely limited—by my
age, by my resume, by my physical location.
And this has really put me into a funk.
Every other time in my life, I felt confident that all I had to do was
get myself up off my butt and “get out there,” and the work or the distraction
would be available. I don’t feel that
way anymore. Unemployed
near-retirement-age is new—and frightening—territory for me. It is decidedly uncomfortable to realize you
don’t have anything to offer anyone anymore.
That, after a lifetime in the workplace, you have not one skill that
anyone would be willing to pay you for.
That, in fact, those years in the workplace haven become a stone around
your neck, or a scarlet letter, when it comes to finding employment.
Life goes on. I’ll do the building renovations, I’ll tend
my yard, I’ll vacuum up the dust bunnies and do the laundry. Rearrange the furniture and clean out the
cupboards and closets for the umpteenth time.
And wish that spring—the season
of rebirth and renewal—was more representative of what is going on in MY life. Because my soul seems to be stuck in
mid-winter.
I'm sorry I'm a crappy letter writer. Too wrapped up in my own head. As usual. Call me. Write to me. I may not have answers but I can listen. Glad you're making progress. Same problem with the yard. Nobody wants to do what really need to have done. Pull weeds. The irises are up. We're about half way through the rhodies. The day lilies are leafing out nicely. Take care of yourself, please.
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