Dad texted me, and told me to call him. So I did, thinking something might be wrong. He just wanted to talk, and wants me to bring over his small amp, boom mic stand and a mic.
Which would mean he’ll have two amps, a guitar, a mic, a boom mic stand, shit tons of music, a music stand, and a guitar stand, plus clothes, shoes, and such. We’ll need a moving van when he leaves there.
I had it, and let him know that my entire fucking life is all about him, and has been for over two years. Even when he’s not here, all I have going on right now is taking care of his shit to move it down here. But sure. I’ll get right on that mic thing.
How fucking sad is it that the most positive thing in my life today is that I got six loads of laundry and two loads of dishes done? Yeehah, this is exactly what I expected to be doing in my prime years, and the life I’d envisioned for myself after getting two degrees and working over 30 years.
Keep in mind that yes, I really do love my father, and I really hope he gets better. But. When he’s here, mostly what he does is lie around in bed complaining about how everything hurts, that depression sucks,, and whines about being lonely.
Now he’s someplace with hundreds of people, giving concerts at least once or twice a week, making lots of new friends, and getting better. He has a built in social life, and people making sure he gets out of his room and comfort zone to do fun things with other people.
This is exactly why this blog is called Hopelessness Hurts. because, quite frankly, hope left December 2019. My life will never be anything other than a total fustercluck.
I’m sure someone will be all like, it could be worse, you could be in Ukraine.
I hate it when people do that. It’s a giant slap in the face. “Oh, don’t complain, hunny, you’re not in this other dire circumstance, so smile and enjoy this relatively idyllic life.”