Tattered Remains

I’m sitting by a fire. I had some remaining wood, and the fireplace was empty, so why not?

The vehicle is packed with what I can take, and I’ll set out in the morning. Around me is the wreckage of my entire life. Strewn about. Cast off. I took a bunch of things to Goodwill, but there is still quite a bit left. And I just don’t have the strength to do anything about it. I feel bad leaving the place for others to cleanup, but I’m out of time. And I’m just so tired. I’m leaving at the end of my lease, but I am definitely not giving the notice that they want. I won’t likely be getting my security deposit back in any case.

Every time that I’ve moved in the past I’ve had to toss some things. That’s just moving. But in doing so, you whittle down and concentrate the things you DO keep. Yes, you still accumulate some junk, but most of it kinda means something to you. It’s not QUITE “just stuff”. There are touchstones among the collection. I’ve tried over this last week to essentialize a lifetime of collected achievements. I’ve kept some items that I don’t strictly “need” because they aren’t very replaceable, things that maybe I tried really hard to find in the past or that I saved and saved for. But even by THAT standard, I am abandoning so very much. — I’m also TAKING too much. It’s just too much in the vehicle. I think the first night I try to sleep in there will show me more of what I must discard. I think bits will be shed along the way in the first few days.

There’s not much left of me. I’m days late. I wanted to be on the way by now. I know I should have some kind of goal as I leave tomorrow, —you’re supposed to have a plan to make it out of this— but all I have is a direction, some things I want to see again, and ideas about being All Done somewhere in the distance.

Everything is wrong. It’s all trauma. It all hurts. I feel like the last guy in a movie who claws his way out of the rubble but knows he’s dying. He just wants to feel the wind, see the sun one last time. He falls to his knees, smiles, and dies.

Just No Demand

It’s just no use. I sat down to watch a movie, try to chill out. Even while doing something I WANT to enjoy, I can’t get enough distance. I smile at a scene and then I realize—like it’s something new—that I need to be dead soon. And it hurts in tightness in my chest. It keeps happening, and the otherwise decent movie is unenjoyable. I’m not allowed to enjoy anything anymore.

I gritted my teeth today and took more and more of my things to Goodwill. I’ve disposed of about 85% of Myself and it’s still not enough. The vehicle is mostly packed and planned-out but it’s still too much. It’s just too much. Now I realize that I will never get my bike in there too, so that has to go. I’ve had that bike for years. We’ve had so many adventures. Gone. Or rather, NOT gone, but I will have to abandon it. I will have to leave it behind at the mercy of the Apartment People who come to reclaim their space next week. I’m to the point where I don’t even have room in the vehicle to take anything more to Goodwill. I will just have to abandon it all in place.

Every trip to Goodwill saw me weeping like a fucking idiot as I drove away. I found myself hyperventilating and had to pull over at one point. Panic attacks are such an amusement. What a god damn weak-ass bastard I am. I don’t need anyone else to be ashamed of me, I got that handled.

Oh, I also took the bulk of my comic book collection to a local shop. I told them that I simply couldn’t take them with me, and better they should go where they will be appreciated than put out in the cold dumpster. He looked through them, “There’s just no demand.” I think he took pity on me. He gave me $5 for about 550 comic books. He actually rang-up $5 as some kind of parting-gift.

That’s about right. That’s about what I’m worth. “There’s just no demand…” …story of my life.

Let It Rain

If there’s a funeral, I want it to rain at my funeral. I want it to rain at my death.
I love the rain. I love the white-noise of it. I love the fresh scent of it.
I love the way it presses down like a thick wool blanket on a cold night.

I want it to rain. I want to be in the rain.
I feel better when it rains.
I like the rain.

One More Nail In The Coffin

I just went out and got my 2018 taxes squared away.

Of course, I was unemployed, but I had cashed in my 401k from years previous. I knew there were penalties for doing such a thing, and there were. I also knew that State taxes were not going to be withheld in that, which they were not. There was a refund, less the penalties, and the state tax, and this, and that, and everything. Oh, and while they repealed the mandatory health insurance, it does in fact, still apply. $695 penalty there because… why not? “He’s down already, go ahead and kick him, it won’t matter anyway.”

I used no health services. I took zero social assistance from the Nation or from State, I covered all my bills and my vehicle maintenance/insurance from savings while desperately trying to achieve gainful employment. I did everything I could to do things right, to cover myself and to not burden society at all. Oh, but you didn’t check this little box… No? Seven hundred dollars more please.

At the end of it all, I WAS actually going to get a few dollars. But then the tax preparation, which is normally not a problem, BECAME a problem. Because it was a 401k dispersion, they had to charge me in a Student/Retired category, which was significantly more expensive than I expected. Why do we charge two of the more vulnerable people-groups more money when they don’t have more money? That’s a good question. There isn’t a good answer, but it’s a good question.

So this little trip ended up costing me money that I do not have. Of course. That is my story. That’s how it works in my shitty world. It just went on the credit card. None of it matters anymore.

But this is why I don’t gamble. I have no luck. And this is why I should have just left it. I should never have done this in the vain hope that I might be able to scrape together a little bit more. All I did was give the government another chance to fuck me. I hope it was good for them.

All just one more reason.
Why shouldn’t I kill myself again?


Edit: Oh, and I have to mail the State a check by April, 15th.
Good luck there State. I intend to be dead by then. Fuck you.

Tread On My Dreams

I’m trying to put household stuff in order in preparation.

My storage trailer was stolen months ago and that reduced a big chunk of my personal possessions. But I still have more than can fit into my vehicle. And I can’t FILL-UP the vehicle, because I’m going to be living in it for at least a little while.

I’m throwing things out. Taking a bunch of stuff to Goodwill, trying to sell some of it locally, just dumping more into a dumpster. And it all hurts. It all hurts. It’s like I’m losing more little bits of myself. Cutting off parts of me.

I’ll pack and take some of the things that are more immediately important to me. Things I might hope to pass on. Things I don’t want the Apartment Management to just trash. I’ll take some clothes, but about half of those will have to be lost. I can’t take the big things, like my futon, or bits of furniture. I probably can’t even take my bike. None of the kitchen stuff, the vacuum, bathroom stuff. Some of it will have to just be left here, abandoned in the apartment. When they come to seize the unit, I’m afraid some stuff will still be here. There’s just nothing I can do about it now. Think of taking a long camping trip, just one vehicle and never coming back. That’s all I can take.

My comic book collection is one of the big things that I just cannot take. I’ve had that for decades. I’ve read and reread them, always being careful and trying to keep them in excellent shape. They weren’t in the trailer because I didn’t want them subjected to weather extremes out there.

I have such an investment in this collection. In money, sure, but more so in Dreams. I’ve had all those adventures time and again. I have loved those characters and traveled the universe with them.

But no one wants them. (Just like the rest of me that no one wants.) There’s only a handful that might actually be worth something to the right person. I should long ago have listed the 700+ individually on eBay or something. By and large, they are not OLD. And the value fell out of comics around the 1990’s… which is when most of mine are from. I’m going to take them to some local shops and see if I can get ANYTHING at all for the lot of them. I expect to be turned away. I tried this a few years ago and I was just shown the door. In the end, I think I’ll just give them to one of the shops in desperation. Better they have them than that they go into a landfill somewhere. What a crime. But hey, what do I need the money for? It’s just a life. Nothing so important here.

“But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
~ W. B. Yeats