Too often lately this blog just seems like a place I come to vent and whine about how hard I've got it. I know that, compared to real problems, I don't really have it that bad, but it's also hard not to feel your own shit is so much worse than most people's. I'm not really covering any new ground here, and I'm certain I've said all of this before, probably a few times. If you find halfway through this post that you've read it all before then, by all means, click away. It's more for me anyway than for you, a little catharsis to go along with my morning (afternoon) coffee.
In my last post I mentioned feeling stuck. I've felt this way for years, as if I was never going to see anything but these same four walls closing in on me.
A little over four years ago Momma was offered a chance to move up at the sushi bar at which she worked. The owner was willing to give her a raise and to allow her to get overtime, but she would need to be available whatever hours she was needed, and to make it work I would have to stop working.
A year or two previously I'd lost what I consider to be the best job I've ever had as well as the best chance I've ever had to place myself in a position to maintain a high level of employment in the field I've fallen into, restaurants.
I was kitchen manager at a local pizza restaurant, a place I truly believed in and loved working for, a place I was willing to work hard to help grow better. The owners had built a small three store chain with our store and their first two stores in the Carolinas. They actually lived in North Carolina and had grown tired of dealing with our store, so they sold it to a local guy who owns way too many restaurants himself. Within a month of his takeover I was out, given a laundry list of bullshit reasons I was leaving, leaving me to believe that I just didn't fit in his future plans for the place.
Since losing that job I was back to the usual, working somewhere for a few months until either I or them grew tired of each other, and I'd move on to the next restaurant. Then Momma got her deal, so I quit working. The plan was supposed to involve me working with the boys' homeschooling and have more time to write, the thing I've always sort of felt I wanted to do but without ever actually doing.
Things were sort of smooth, or so they seemed to me, but they were never good for me. Momma took advantage of her freedom and began going out a lot more than I realized, and at some point I started to get the feeling that things were not what I thought in relation to the amount of time she spent away from the house. Over the next two years, the two people in her life that I had a feeling were more than friends turned out to be exactly what I thought.
Now to add a wrinkle we throw in the gay. I knew I was gay and wanted a good way out of this relationship, a way to finally be free to be gay. I almost wished that Momma would fuck up somehow and give me the opening I wanted, and eventually she did. I'd spent years pretending to be her loving straight husband, knowing that for me to come out would begin so much pain and hurt, and I just couldn't do it. I don't know to make her understand the hurt I still feel, hurt that I took on and hurt that I gave out.
And now, things should be better. I almost have the freedom I need, and she has all the freedom she needs and more. She has a place to live and a boyfriend and a good job. I have a sofa in her living room and a new job. I still don't reasonably have my freedom in a useful way, and I'm stuck. She still gets to go out and have fun and enjoy herself. I took a paper bag full of pennies to the grocery store to feed into the coin machine so that I could have a tiny bit of money in my pocket.
She has been mostly understanding and extremely helpful, but at the same time she hasn't been as understanding as I would like, and her help is starting to feel like charity. Accepting her help feels like constantly having to admit my own failure when in fact I'm in the place I am because I ate shit for years, forced myself to accept a role that was entirely wrong for me in order to help her and save her from having to feel the hurt that I accepted was my own.
And I'm still waiting, and I know for a fact that I will likely be still here, still waiting, still frustrated for the next several months. It will be at least a month (the one with Christmas in it no less) until I even begin to get myself to a financially stable place. After catching up with some bills/debts I will then need another couple of months of saving money to attempt to find my own place to live, and that is a whole other scary, looming beast on my horizon, being on my own for the first time.
I've been patient. I've been patient with Momma and with circumstances and with feeling frustrated and depressed and anxious. I'm so fucking tired of being patient. I'm so tired of watching good happen for so many people while I sit patiently and wait for my turn to get what I need. And what do I see waiting for me? What does my near future hold in store? The knowledge that my only option is remaining patient, eating shit and taking all of this frustration onto myseself. Pretty much where I've been for years, doing pretty much exactly as I have for years.