Popped

The question was posed to me earlier tonight: “So, Shawn, what do you do to restore your soul?”

I shrugged my tired shrug and had no answer. “Nothing, I guess.”

“Are you still trying to adjust to the new job or something?”

“No, sweetheart, this has been going on for 14 years. Sorry.”

Almost 14 years ago I moved here. It’s a great place, don’t get me wrong. It’s not totally this town’s fault that I’m in the shape I’m in. I’m humbled, humiliated as it were, that in this place of opportunity and serendipity, 14 years hence, I still find myself stumbling along in a navel-gazing stupor, sleepwalking between the fruit trees in a forest of uncaring people. I can enjoy life and feel revived if I don’t think about it, but the moment someone asks, I give my tired excuses as ablative shielding and stop doing what I was doing. If they ask deeper questions about the why and how, the peer-level social situation becomes doctor-patient talk therapy. I really don’t want that. Nobody wants to help a man who refuses to help himself.

I have a lot of internal struggles. Everyone does, really, but mine keep me out of a lot of things that might actually be beneficial if I’d just let myself commit to them and admit that I did them. Eventually I’ll exorcise those cruel demons, right? Right?

Published by Shawn

He's just this guy, you know?