I feel the need to start this with an apology. I’ve written, read, re-written and re-read this piece since 8 am. I’ve tinkered and toyed with it, trying to get it to say the thing that I want it to.
I’m not sure I’ve accomplished that goal. It feels, at times, insufferable, which is the opposite of what I mean it to mean. If you can grant me that at the beginning, I shall try to make it up at the end.
Two years ago, the thing that happened this weekend wouldn’t – maybe couldn’t – have happened.
It’s a simple thing, actually. I’ve told the story a few times now and the response has been under-whelming. Not because my friends weren’t happy for me. They are. More because what I did is what normal people do.
But “what normal people do” hasn’t been in the lexicon. Not in the tool belt.
When it comes to human emotions – particularly mine – the default mechanism for years has been to filter whatever was happening around me through its effects on me. How would I be affected? What does this mean for me?
There could be no explanation that didn’t involve – somehow – it’s affiliation to me.
It’s exhausting to think about now. I can’t imagine what it must have been like within the vortex.
I’d like to blame this particular character trait on my alcoholism, but I’m not sure if that’s entirely fair.