So here it is, just after 6:30am as I begin writing this. I've gotten maybe 6 hours of sleep, which--for me--isn't enough. On top of a deficit in the sleep department, I'm either still a little inebriated from last night's party for one with Mr. John Jameson or I'm a bit hung over. Possibly both. I'm not much of a drinker, so it's hard for me to tell where one begins and the other ends. The point is, I can't sleep.
There are times when I like to think of myself as a writer. This is laughable, mostly because the defining characteristic of writers is the fact that they write, something I rarely do. I can't say why, exactly...No, that's not true. I can say why: fear. I'm afraid to write a steaming pile of crap, and so I mostly just don't bother, even though I'm fairly certain I could do a serviceable job with practice.
Nevertheless, I was lying in bed, failing to sleep and writing this in my head, so I figured I may as well just bow to the inevitable, get up, and actually write for damn once.
Not that I have much to say.
Long story short, it's been a tough week, and I'm feeling anhedonic. I feel crappy mentally and physically, and nothing sounds like much fun at the moment. To say that I want to sit around my house doing nothing would be untrue, but to say that I want to do anything other than that would also be untrue. In short: blah. Everything's blah. And considering everything that's gone down in Boston since Monday, just saying that is an exercise in narcissism and self-pity, but fuck it. That's how I feel. I'm a depressive--with anxiety issues thrown in to spice things up--and this week's gotten to me.
First of all, my mom lives in Boston. I've also got a cousin and her family in the area, as well as a number of co-workers. Suffice it to say, I've got reasons to want Boston to be a shiny, happy place. But thanks to a couple of moronic, misanthropic malcontents, Boston's been anything but shiny and happy this week.
I mentioned depression. I definitely have a natural propensity for it. I've always been moody, always been high-strung. That said, I had just about the greatest childhood a person can have. I had a big, loving, supportive family. I was an intelligent, eager student. I had plenty of friends. I was no stranger to girls. And I was a pretty darn good athlete. Needless to say, I was feeling pretty good about life back in the day.
And then I wandered out into the real world and got hit by an existential Mack truck. I learned that intelligence doesn't count for shit if it's not coupled with a little ambition and focus. I truly began to understand--and loathe--the necessity of money. And I learned--far, far too slowly--that there are people out there who, when given some poor, sad schmuck's heart, will play a little hacky sack with it, get bored, and punt it into the nearest landfill. Mix in a long string of shitty jobs for which I was supremely over-qualified and egregiously underpaid, add a dash of substance abuse--mostly weed, but a handful of other chemicals here and there (but never the hardcore stuff like coke or meth! That shit rots your brain, boys and girls!)--and you have the shitstorm that was my 20s.
But things got better. I finally found a woman who loved me and *gasp* treated me with respect, despite my depression. I got a job I enjoyed--working as a quizmaster--and slowly worked my way up the ranks (which is a nice way of saying I bugged the shit out of a guy named Matt until he gave me more work and responsibility). And I finally learned to accept that some people are just awful.
Ok, that's a lie. I don't accept it. I think that almost everyone is capable of being good, and that it would be a lot easier to do so if they'd just get their heads out of their asses. But I've at least learned that there will always be people out there that will fail to meet my expectations of simple human decency, and to not let it get to me too much. Sure, I'll rant about stupid people on Facebook, but that's part social commentary, part foul-mouthed entertainment, and yes, part catharsis. Most of that stuff doesn't really get to me.
Except when people bomb marathons. That gets to me.
Like I said, I know people in Boston. Then there's the fact that I was a runner, and, despite the fact that I don't get much running done these days, I still self-identify as a runner. And my family's full of runners. The people who were attacked aren't just Americans--people who happened to be born in the same country as me--they're runners: people who understand the zen-like joy of a pair of good shoes, their body, and miles of roads and trails. They're spiritual brethren, which makes an attack on them feel that much more personal.
Even worse is the pointlessness of it all. We still don't know why these two guys decided to blow up a bunch of strangers who were trying to enjoy a day outside, but there's no escaping the fact that there's no good fucking reason to blow up a bunch of civilians. It serves no purpose. If the point is to strike at the heart of American blah blah rhetoric whatever, then I have bad news for these people: this won't change a damn thing. Americans won't stop living the way they live just because some people got blown up. Or because someone flew airplanes into a few buildings. And neither would anyone else in any other country.
Humans are resilient. We experience tragedies big and small throughout our lives, and the vast majority of us get up, dust ourselves off, and push onward. Anyone who thinks these sorts of acts will accomplish anything other than killing people and making themselves look like the world's biggest assholes is deluded beyond my ability to comprehend.
Or maybe I understand it better than I'd like to admit.
At one point this week, I found myself thinking about the people who'd had wives or children hurt or killed in these blasts, and I found myself thinking "Someone should kill their wives and children, make them feel the pain they've inflicted." And then I realized what a supremely gigantic piece of shit I was for thinking such a thing. That's the kind of thinking that makes people hijack a plane and run it into things. For all I knew at the time, that was the exact reason these guys had bombed Boston!
That doesn't seem to be the case this time around, but the fact remains that no one deserves that. Not even your worst enemy. If someone wrongs you, you take it up with them; you don't take it out on their family and friends. Not if you've got a shred of sanity and decency, anyway.
So I guess the only real difference between me and these guys is the fact that I'm educated and sane enough to follow these thoughts to their logical conclusion and see what a farce that kind of thinking is.
That doesn't help much with my current bout of anhedonia, but screw it. I've got all my limbs, my family's safe, and I've got a job I enjoy. A little anhedonia's a small (and temporary) price to pay for all of that.
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