Volume Control

It seems like every day the volume gets turned up a little more in my head, which is good, very very good, because it blocks out the rumbling doubts and anxieties and fear that preoccupies me. Background noise is important. When things get too quiet, trouble starts. And things had been quiet for too long. I can see the mental dial twisting every day that i wake up, live, and go to sleep. I anticipate the daily changes, the decreasing fear, the increasing hope. I fully anticipate complete recovery from my ailments by Friday. Friday Friday Friday. Another big day. A chance to spring free from this rat trap. A chance to remove a link from the chain that keeps me here.

I'm quite aware of the fact I am a control freak. Very well aware of it, and I dont really see it as a negative. The only problem is that when one controls their lives so tightly, any slight pertebation or loss of control can send the whole delicately balanced tower of blocks tumbling down.

Ah, the burden of earning a livable wage. What do independently-wealthy people have to worry about? They have control. Anytime someone hands you a paycheck, you hand them control. The price of handing over my control is going to be a steep one. I just have to get out of here first.

The Head and i have realized that we may be running in the wrong career race. The question is, do we keep running? We've got the speed but we're not exactly sure what it is we're running towards.

A drink past pensive

I grew despondent over the last few weeks. Things haven't worked like i hoped. People i trusted betrayed me. Even worse--they disappointed me. I worked very very hard and it went unrecognized. I realized two main things. In science, the field in which i work, you can never pay it forward. The only thing that counts is how many hours you worked yesterday. Not what you did. Not how well you did it. Not how many asses you pulled out of the fire. Not the precision, expertise and excellence you displayed. Only the fact you were present, even though those extra hours were spent surfing the internet for the latest update on Lindsay Lohan. There is no way to pay anything forward in my field. The second thing i realized is that people who openly abide by the rules and portray themselves as nice guys that "do the right thing" can be inherently immoral when it comes to their own self interests. Lying to keep someone around. Offering easy situations that would be suicidal to the recipient and not caring that it is so because they fear change. Doing everything in their power to suspend animation. Not for the greater good. For their good. Not even their good. For their complacency. To quell their fear of the unknown. Applying new rules in the 11th hour arbitrarily. I feel trapped. I dont like losing control. I will only be despondent for so long before i sack up and find a way to regain control. I may not be able to pay things forward, but i most certainly, always PAY. THINGS. BACK.

I skipped work today because i was so depressed that it made me physically sick. But tonight, i looked in the crib. And he is my antidepressant. Fuck everything that is NOT him or the people i love! That little angel. That perfect little man that bears a striking resemblance to the only other perfect man i know. You know, they have the same fat little nose. My little man turned 1 this weekend. But so much more. He turned into a little boy. Babies are blobs of bubbly, screamy life. But little boys are angry, happy, sad, worried, curious, indignant, obstinant. They cling to mama's legs for comfort, and turn red and shake their tiny fists when mama says "no." So quickly the Dude has changed. I look at his little legs and they are no longer chubby little baby legs, but the muscular active legs of a toddler. The Dude communicates with us now--he says words and asks for things in his own ning-ning-da-da-ug-bah language. And he imitates what we say and do. There is nothing, nothing, not a g'damn thing in the world can phase me when i ask my Dude for a kiss and he plants this disgusting, open-mouthed drool-covered smacker on my lips. THAT, my friends, is the cure for depression. I'd sell my distant PhD down the river for mouthfuls of baby spit any day. The Dude gives me perspective. In my hours with him, i need nothing but him--exept perhaps his Dada too. Its the hours i'm away from him and his Dada that require medication.

I'll rebound from my work-related disapointments. But i will harbor resentment--i always do. Spite is a powerful motivator. However, i will spare my soul the agony of defeat because no matter where i go or what i do I HAVE WON because i have the Dude.