as told to (your name here)

Hello again

I don't know how much longer I can do this.  It's only been 2 weeks and 3 days.  So, 17 days.  That was a Friday, the worst Friday ever.  I still kinda think it was my fault.  I don't know if I'll ever free myself of the guilt.  There's so. much. guilt, over that and so many other things I either didn't do or did wrong.  I believe it's my punishment though, that I can't tell anyone about the worst of it.  They'd say it's not true.  Or they'd try to convince me it was an accident.  I wouldn't argue with them, but in my head I know that it can be an accident AND my fault at the same time.  Nothing they'd say matters though, since it'll still be in my head.  I'll nod & say they're right, but still think it.  Always, and I'll never know the truth.  The one person who can tell me, can't tell me.

Backing up, some truths to set the stage...

I didn't lose my job that day.  It was actually a little over 7 months later though.  Partially the pandemic, but mostly that cocksucker of a boss.  The fact that he's the CIO doesn't mean he knows jack-shit about IT.  I tried to convince him that it would save time & money to do it my way.  I tried to map out a plan to get from here to there and when he told me to just shut up and do the minimum, I went ahead with my plan anyway.  He could never see the big picture.  He just wanted to buy more software that nobody wanted instead of making what we had work.  And my spineless pussy of a director agreed with me to my face but put me on the list with a knife in my back.  He used the pandemic as an excuse to furlough and then lay me off.  None of them knew that 2 weeks earlier was the previous worst Friday ever, but it wouldn't have mattered to those heartless, fucking imbeciles.  Of course I got another job, a pretty good one, with the nicest bunch of people I've never met.

I didn't name my dog Alexa either.  I wouldn't actually have a dog for another year and 7 months.  Pandemic puppies are such a cliché, but we had always wanted one and we now finally had a house to bring her home to.  The breeder was basically a hillbilly, but mom made sure she checked out.  She let us delay bringing her home by a week so that we could rewrite a bit of history.  Instead of remembering that day as the then-worst Friday ever we would mark that day as the day we brought home our little girl.  She's beautiful and a handful and loving and rotten.  Daddy's girl, which made her momma sad, but momma couldn't take care of her so I did.  Momma didn't celebrate her birthday, 8 days ago.  I didn't celebrate it either.

And that day in 2019 wasn't the hardest year of my life.  17 days ago was the beginning of it.  I'm empty and numb.  Lightheaded, like I bit off a bit too much of that chocolate bar I brought back from Colorado.  I think I've convinced my family and friends that I'm not going to park my car in the garage and just leave it running.  I haven't fully convinced myself yet though.  I was able to stop myself from crying in the frozen food aisle yesterday, before anyone could see me.  I was thinking that this is what my life is now: Fucking pathetic Hungry Man dinners.  I was feeling sorry for myself, which is the only thing more fucking pathetic than eating every meal off an aluminum tray from the freezer.  I'm not hungry anyway, "but you gotta eat" I hear them all say.  So I heat up a ziti casserole and think about how much longer I have to do this.

It's not like I've got a ton of time remaining anyway.  Both of my grandfathers died from heart attacks.  My dad survived his, even had a second little one not long ago.  I know how the genetics work, so I know it's coming for me eventually.  I'm just waiting for my turn.  Modern medicine being what it is, I'd probably survive the heart attack if I don't let the heart break stop me from calling for help.  I always wanted to retire overseas and bid this nightmare of a country good bye.  I might just embrace it and go.

posted by tinyhands @ 12:50 AM