The Cacophony in (and out of) my head Whilst Waiting my Turn at the Bank

 

After I retired, my time mostly was my own. And then, people I knew, some of them anyway, came to a conclusion, "Djinn isn't doing anything!"  Well, to be fair to them, that's not what they said, and they'd probably deny that's even what they thought. But after about a year, I found myself with new"expectations". Not the typical work kind, but the kind that I suppose would fall under the rubric "charity." A couple of things I agreed to readily; a couple of things I said an absolute "no" to; a couple of things, and I'd like to kick myself over those, I said "no" many times but allowed myself to be manipulated (or so I interpreted anyway).

I am an obsessive compulsive. The real McCoy. Meaning I debate things endlessly, come to a conclusion for about a second and then begin the debate again. Until I drive myself crazy. I used to drive dad crazy with my fears and doubts. But then he died and now I mercifully (for them whoever they might have been) have found no replacement. So, these days, I talk to myself, and God, about the things that I doubt and fear endlessly about. The things I should have said "no" to and didn't--too late to back out and I have to face them, even though I am perpetually terrified and would rather be anywhere other than here or there.

Today was a particularly hard day. In between my obligations for discharge to others, I had to go to the bank to take care of something for me. I agree. I am a shit. I should love to help others. I'm a Christian. I am a Catholic Christian. I am supposed to want to sacrifice. Truth be told I don't. To the extent I do, it is despite myself.  And I am a coward besides. I pray to God for patience, for courage, for love. He's probably answering, but I'm not hearing Him; I'm too busy obsessing and being afraid.

So, I'm in a veritably empty bank. They all look like that these days. One guy in account services looking like he'd rather be anyplace else, like me.

There is a woman with the guy, the solo bank account manager guy. She is going on and on, as she has every right to be. And I want to scream "Shut up!".  The young associate is in and out of the back office trying to accommodate her various wishes. In the waiting area with me, is a man with a brief case. I see that inside the brief case are lots of papers with lots of notes. He is clearly going to take a long time when his turn, before me, comes. He's probably crazy. But that's his right. He has rights. Me, I'm just trying to be good, whatever "good" looks like.  I decide. "No, I'm here, that's it, I'm not leaving without accomplishing my business." He gives me a press clipping. He is John Scott, the oldest living "tagger".  Yep. He was oldest living tagger at 74. Now he's 77. He's very proud of his press. Nice to be so secure in one's place in the world, even home made.

He seems a very nice man, at least as we sit in this cubular sectional area. I like him. I don't like that he is a tagger, oldest living or not. But I ain't going to tell him that and ruin our very nice short relationship that won't become a longer one. In between I hear some woman come in and talk about the nearby pharmacy where they sell everything besides drugs, and I think she is talking about getting nice candle. She says, "I'm not looking for something 'fancy schmancy'".  I wonder why she is in this bank talking about candles. My head is about to explode.

As I write this, it has begun to rain. My screen door which I made the mistake of opening to "see" the stupid rain, has broken and I can't get it on track. I kicked it into a form of submission; I wanted to rip it up and throw it to the ground below; I didn't, and I will have to spend money I'd rather not to to fix it sometime in the future.

I made the additional mistake of turning on the news to hear about some shooting at Cal State Fullerton; what? this a day after some shooting at a mall in Oregon. My head is about to explode again.

You cannot imagine the panoply of words I'd like to say and write--the kind you have to make confession about, or do you? The world is so changed. I am not sure what is true or false, dogma or discretion. 

Everybody's got troubles. What was it that Spock said to Leila, which by the way, is a page in my memoir that I may never publish, one of those pre-dedication pages.  "If there are self-made purgatories, then we all have to live in them. Mine can be no worse than anyone else's."

It's hard to believe as I write this, that I really think I have had a great life. A blessed life, as my friend Veronica tells me repeatedly I have had. I know it is so. I just had my uncle, and aunt and cousin here for wine and cheese in between my whining. It was nice. And yet right now, having turned down the sound on my TV reporting yet another horrific shooting by some so called normal person, I am having a hard time seeing it.

 I need to pray. It is the last thing I want to do. I need to do it despite the feeling against it.

"Oh, my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee" which I think I did in my heart and soul today. "Help me do better tomorrow."

My head still feels like it is going to explode.