Afflicting the Comfortable
I have to admit that I’m the comfortable they’re talking about in some ways. As I recline here on our blue velvet couch from West Elm.
I’m mostly not the afflicted. I’m trans, I’m depressed, I’m on disability. But my friends and family keep me comfortable for the most part.
I don’t have a clear perspective about this. I’m ashamed of being perpetually broke. When it comes to money I have very little.
I often let people pay for me. Most people I know have more money than me. Some a lot more, some just a little more. People often treat me to meals, or events.
We’re going to the Cape and Maine. In the fall maybe London and Paris.
I’ve learned to use the library so I don’t have to own every book I read.
I feel scarcity, austerity, but I truly live in abundance.
Just like I feel unsafe frequently, but I’ve actually been safe every day of my 58 years as it’s turned out.
I think comfort of this sort is almost a drug. It fogs the mind. It allows me to drift from day to day relatively contentedly.
I have almost no tolerance for stess. If there seems to be too much to do in any way, I will give up and go back to bed.
I’m like Bartleby the Scrivener. I prefer not to. Doesn’t matter what’s being offered. I refuse social events as well chores.
This has left me somewhat isolated and lonely. Most of the time I see no one but my wife.
The gift of my life is my volunteer work at the 🏳️🌈 🏳️⚧️ center bookstore. Once a week, when I’m in NYC, I interact with the so-called queer community.
And I get to see all the books and go to the events.
New York has more events than you can possibly even go to. I have to pick which to do very carefully.
In June I’m going to Ekko Astral and The Lambrini Girls (trans bands)at The Sultan Room. With Pons opening. I don’t know Pons.
My person, my spouse, Beryl, makes a decent living for us in tech. For which my job is to keep the house clean. Do the dishes, the laundry and get the groceries. This is how I contribute. I owe her so much, but still I struggle with the chores, and with resentment. And Beryl does too.
I want to be able to do these things willingly for her, even gladly, but my inner child is so angry about chores because of my childhood. They never want to do another chore no matter what it is. So I procrastinate.
Even right now I need to go to the pharmacy and dust and vacuum. I started writing this to see if I could get myself motivated.
Is this just more procrastination?
No one reading this would feel sorry for me. Why do I struggle so to accomplish anything? I’m in some kind of emotional pain. Life’s lessons are a conundrum.
Somehow I fail to have even a smidge of a work ethic.
It’s fine to blame capitalism and call the system a racket and refuse to participate, but this really isn’t a principled stance. It’s an emotional brick wall.
Did my mother make me do an unreasonable amount of chores? Some might say yes, my therapist says I shouldn’t have had to get the groceries and buy mom scotch and cigarettes all the time, but some would certainly argue that they did as much or more as children.
Well I have to go to the pharmacy now. I can’t sleep without my Trazodone.
I doubt I’ll ever come to serenity about all this.
I’m mostly not the afflicted. I’m trans, I’m depressed, I’m on disability. But my friends and family keep me comfortable for the most part.
I don’t have a clear perspective about this. I’m ashamed of being perpetually broke. When it comes to money I have very little.
I often let people pay for me. Most people I know have more money than me. Some a lot more, some just a little more. People often treat me to meals, or events.
We’re going to the Cape and Maine. In the fall maybe London and Paris.
I’ve learned to use the library so I don’t have to own every book I read.
I feel scarcity, austerity, but I truly live in abundance.
Just like I feel unsafe frequently, but I’ve actually been safe every day of my 58 years as it’s turned out.
I think comfort of this sort is almost a drug. It fogs the mind. It allows me to drift from day to day relatively contentedly.
I have almost no tolerance for stess. If there seems to be too much to do in any way, I will give up and go back to bed.
I’m like Bartleby the Scrivener. I prefer not to. Doesn’t matter what’s being offered. I refuse social events as well chores.
This has left me somewhat isolated and lonely. Most of the time I see no one but my wife.
The gift of my life is my volunteer work at the 🏳️🌈 🏳️⚧️ center bookstore. Once a week, when I’m in NYC, I interact with the so-called queer community.
And I get to see all the books and go to the events.
New York has more events than you can possibly even go to. I have to pick which to do very carefully.
In June I’m going to Ekko Astral and The Lambrini Girls (trans bands)at The Sultan Room. With Pons opening. I don’t know Pons.
My person, my spouse, Beryl, makes a decent living for us in tech. For which my job is to keep the house clean. Do the dishes, the laundry and get the groceries. This is how I contribute. I owe her so much, but still I struggle with the chores, and with resentment. And Beryl does too.
I want to be able to do these things willingly for her, even gladly, but my inner child is so angry about chores because of my childhood. They never want to do another chore no matter what it is. So I procrastinate.
Even right now I need to go to the pharmacy and dust and vacuum. I started writing this to see if I could get myself motivated.
Is this just more procrastination?
No one reading this would feel sorry for me. Why do I struggle so to accomplish anything? I’m in some kind of emotional pain. Life’s lessons are a conundrum.
Somehow I fail to have even a smidge of a work ethic.
It’s fine to blame capitalism and call the system a racket and refuse to participate, but this really isn’t a principled stance. It’s an emotional brick wall.
Did my mother make me do an unreasonable amount of chores? Some might say yes, my therapist says I shouldn’t have had to get the groceries and buy mom scotch and cigarettes all the time, but some would certainly argue that they did as much or more as children.
Well I have to go to the pharmacy now. I can’t sleep without my Trazodone.
I doubt I’ll ever come to serenity about all this.