Acting

December hangs low, always, on these gray days. The sky is one large overwhelming cloud; it mirrors my soul. Days like these. There’s no comfort or ease of mind. I’m not sure why I’m doing anything anymore, not sure what the point of it all is. I sat in bed last night, unmoving, TV blaring but I wasn’t hearing it, tears just streaming down my face. Why? Why, I want to know. But why, I will never know. It hadn’t been a bad day. It was normal. But then my mood fell and I was swept up in the undertow of deep sadness again.

At work today, I stare blankly at my computer screen, clicking back and forth between the tabs and windows. I don’t know how to move forward. Can’t move forward- can’t let go. I struggle with myself. I am fueled only by hatred and darkness, the world only ugly again in my eyes. Would the doctors blame the bipolar diagnosis? Would they blame the full moon, the oncoming period, the loneliness I feel in all my quiet nights. Who cares. The doctors know nothing. They don’t help either. But they definitely profit in pretending to understand. The worst kind of liars.
I haven’t taken lunch and it’s nearly 2pm. I break myself from my pointless staring. Rise up out of my chair, force myself up. I walk across the street to my new favorite bar and order a stiff drink: my old friend in need when friends can’t be found. Flesh and blood friends. They don’t seem to exist either. There is always a wall of falsity there- I cannot really open up. Who I Am, in my mind, in my soul, is too scary to let out fully. And it plays a big part in why so many of them have left.
I take another drink.

Last Friday was the three year anniversary of my being fired from E.corp. I braved the day facing it head on and I barely even felt the sting of the memories which weigh me down so completely in my lower moments. I was fine. I was feeling good. The next day, Saturday morning, I arrived surprisingly on time at the college I attended years ago. I was to be judging the new students and their portfolios, discussing their work with them. I saw J there naturally. I’d expected to, as I’d written him earlier in the week talking about it. I saw others I’d known while in school. I stabbed at small talk. I analyzed designs. I felt mostly good. And then at the end, all of the judges- myself included- sat in front of the students discussing the design world, careers, etc. It was the same old song and dance. I was not like these people. They were too strict. “Do this with your resume, Don’t do this on social networking, do this, do that.” So many limitations. As though you could only succeed in following their rules. I was not made for rules. They don’t equate with me. I paint my paintings without staying in any lines, not taking into account the fucking color wheel. I feel it all. I write and I start sentences with “because.” Because I could care less what they say you should and should not do. It doesn’t apply.
I tried not to roll my eyes too many times at J sitting in the front row. I knew how angry I looked. This is why people do not like me. I am too difficult, too stubborn. I want to escape. Not a traditional escape though, per se. I want to escape from myself.
I hurried out the door and to my car for a cigarette immediately afterward. My car wouldn’t start, of course. Ugh. i waited and watched people coming and going from the college doors until it was mostly just me. I jumped my car. In my head, I kept thinking, well I haven’t come too far I guess. I was doing the same shit five years ago, when I was IN school there. Jumping my fucking piece of shit car. Shocking. What a loser I am, I kept thinking. Couldn’t shake the thought. What a fucking loser.
The highlight was that I was fairly sure one girl had been sincere in her gratitude toward me during the critique. I complimented her greatly on her typography, her use of color, use of negative space, craft.
“Thank you so much,” she’d said as I was overlooking her projects. “That really means a lot to me.”
I hoped she meant it. People so seldom mean the things that they say.

Afterward, I sat alone at home, drinking and painting. God. Who cares. I want no part in this goddam world. I have no desire for any of it.