substance abuse
I'm tired lately. Drinking too much coffee to get through my day. Noticing, also, a craving for sodas, sweets, fast food and other garbage that was somewhere along the way hardwired into my brain as "treats." I "treated" myself just now to a Cherry Coke. Last night I "treated" myself to Fritos and cheese dip. My mind feels treated, but my body feels cheated. Ha ha. Yeah. What the hell.
Crossing the bridge today, thinking about work and how some days people seem universally good and other days people seem universally disgusting. I had a really cruel thought and remembered a whole constellation of really cruel thoughts that have crossed my mind recently: wanting to hit a classmate in the face with my nalgene bottle because she was chewing crunchy cereal in class with her mouth open; longing to scream at the loud kids on the bus to shut the fuck up; wishing some of our "suicidal" clients would go ahead and do it already. What comes over me?
Then I thought maybe my work with disadvantaged populations wasn't so good hearted, but was really the living out of some kind of weird reform sadism. I feel best about my work when I'm witnessing a particular kind of human suffering. When clients equally crazy, equally needy, equally homeless behave defiantly or with a sense of obnoxious entitlement, I don't enjoy helping them. I kind of resent helping them. But when they're just the right timbre of meek and just the right shade of broken: then my job feels golden. What the fuck is wrong with me?
I don't know. All I know is: I'm tired. I'm thirsty. And tomorrow is my birthday. And this is the angsty way I've come to celebrate it. Yippee.
Crossing the bridge today, thinking about work and how some days people seem universally good and other days people seem universally disgusting. I had a really cruel thought and remembered a whole constellation of really cruel thoughts that have crossed my mind recently: wanting to hit a classmate in the face with my nalgene bottle because she was chewing crunchy cereal in class with her mouth open; longing to scream at the loud kids on the bus to shut the fuck up; wishing some of our "suicidal" clients would go ahead and do it already. What comes over me?
Then I thought maybe my work with disadvantaged populations wasn't so good hearted, but was really the living out of some kind of weird reform sadism. I feel best about my work when I'm witnessing a particular kind of human suffering. When clients equally crazy, equally needy, equally homeless behave defiantly or with a sense of obnoxious entitlement, I don't enjoy helping them. I kind of resent helping them. But when they're just the right timbre of meek and just the right shade of broken: then my job feels golden. What the fuck is wrong with me?
I don't know. All I know is: I'm tired. I'm thirsty. And tomorrow is my birthday. And this is the angsty way I've come to celebrate it. Yippee.
posted by reasonably prudent poet at 8:19 PM
2 Comments:
Once again, I really enjoy the way you paint images. "the right timbre of meek and just the right shade of broken". I would love to be able to write like that. Finish the novel so I can read it.
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