yesterday

Yesterday was a bad day. A crooked stranger did not cheat me. I did not receive a phone call of distress from a loved one. A vending machine did not rob me of a dollar. No, yesterday's misfortunes were a product of my mind; the perpetrator was me.

A manic mind unmanaged will topple itself, especially if said mind finds a tasty morsel of anxiety to nibble. The mind is temporarily content as it slowly devours the dollop of apprehension, but, eventually, it must find something else to satisfy its gluttonous appetite. My mind becomes fixed, or obsessed, with points of anxiety, and if the mind fails to find a spark of anxiety, it is quick to manufacture one, resulting in an absolute and overwhelming tide of fear and hopelessness. It's much easier to save one's self in the shallows, but the reality -- well, perceived reality -- of my situation doesn't strike until I am one thousand leagues under the sea and a million miles from shore. Water slowly fills my lungs. I'm sinking. Arms are flailing. I'm drowning. Why fight for survival? And, as comrades and readers of this blog know, I can't... Well, we've been here before, haven't we?

My point: it's very easy for people who "suffer" from the same illness as I to quickly fall into a hole. Our minds are masters at crafting avalanches and self-fulfilling prophecies.

Back to yesterday: I've never been a career-oriented person. I've always resisted that which milli0ns of people my age embraced years ago: a career. In many respects, I feel that surrendering -- perhaps devoting is a gentler word -- one's self to a job, a career is contrary to the human spirit. Driving the same roads to the same workplace five days a week is counter intuitive to the raw desire of human nature. But, then again, we are creatures of habit. Perhaps this is why advanced societies and cultures have developed a service or product to tickle every whim and want of the human species -- to satisfy the craving for ritual, habit, thereby dulling the desire to wander, to roam, and, to a certain degree, revolt; after all, a civilization drunk on amusement is a docile civilization (and you can quote me on that).

Several years ago I knew what I wanted. (Or so I thought.) I could practically taste my heart's wicked desire. I simply had to wait for an opening. An opportunity. "Make your death as convenient as possible," I would tell myself. Lose your job. Get arrested. Just find a scapegoat. A scapegoat for suicide.

I turned 30 last June. (Christ, I turned 30 last June!) Initially, the number that precedes 31 did not shake me; it did not alter my perspective on life, especially my life. But once 30 had time to ferment, things changed. I (finally) realized I was tired of being a fuck-up. I decided to combat my mental illnesses (don't bring a knife to a gun fight, kids). And I decided to live.

So now, at the age of 30, I want to salvage what I can. I'm not only saddened by the last 10-12 years, but sickened. A decade of my life... gone. Pissed away in pools of self-loathing and hatred. Gone. A decade... vanished.

And this is a defining moment: Will I succumb to the weight of lost time and fabricate a futile life, or will I have a come-to-Jesus moment and actually change my life now for a future of prosperity and happiness? I want the latter, but the diligence, work and focus that will be required of me is a spark of anxiety, which, as I mentioned earlier, has recently caused an avalanche of negative and self-defeating thoughts.

Is nursing for me? I can visualize a future in which I am an RN -- a Registered Nurse -- employed at some nondescript hospital or as a hospice nurse. Are these simply the ridiculous delusions of a manic mind, a mind fully capable of conjuring false desires for a personality that craves a sense of belonging?

It may seem like an absurd notion -- me as an RN -- to those who know me. Yours truly as the proverbial "male nurse." Why is it a ridiculous thought? Is it because the male nurse is, to many, a punchline? Perhaps. Is it because the profession doesn't accentuate my innate artistic abilities? Maybe. Perhaps the very concept of pursuing a legitimate career is preposterous to me. It counters nearly two decades of personal thought, the thought being I would make my living as a musician or writer of some sort.

And I would be living a dream if that were my reality. But it is not. It cannot become my reality because, ultimately, I lack the desire to pursue such a line of living. Music and writing are terrific hobbies... I love the act of creating... But... Perhaps those initial dreams were exaggerated by a manic mind; I wanted the sky but lacked the desire to build a rocket ship to chase the stars. If I wanted it enough, I would push through the discouragement and "grunt work" and achieve my heart's fancy. But sometimes, especially in the arts, wanting it isn't sufficient.

So why an RN? It's certainly a practical career path to follow. Regardless of the economy, the health profession will always be a staple to any culture, and I could find a position virtually anywhere. A nurse has anything BUT a monotonous job. As a respondent said in a Princeton Review survey, the nursing field offers one "to do a million different things, in a million different places.”

I just found myself writing from a defensive stance. Why should I defend my desire to pursue such a career? Am I trying to convince you, the reader, or myself? This issue is obviously a sensitive area... why? Am I seeking a stamp of approval? Am I concerned this may be a fascination pushed forth by some manic desire? (Yes, which is why I'm giving so much thought and time to the issue.) Or is my mind attempting to find a spark of anxiety and feast upon my insecurities?

xx