Someone asked me what I wanted for Christmas, and I said I have everything I want. Meaning of course everything that can be given as a Christmas gift. It's not that I have a lot, it's that I have what I want -- small, purchaseable things of the sort that people might want. It's all so philosophical. What does it mean, to want? I want a 1949 Chrysler New Yorker, convertible of course, and red. Who knows, maybe it's true. I want one of those little computers that you can take anywhere, but the screen is big enough, that has a keyboard and gets internet for free out of the air. I want my life to have more purpose. I want to be loved as sincerely as I have loved. You know, the meaning of Christmas.
By any measure I am in the autumn of my life. Very little to show for myself. Not well done, not good and not faithful servant. These things come in fits, of course, these feelings. I'm much better than I have been in recent years. The critical depression has subsided. But I'm empty, and that's not good. I've missed my purpose. I don't think I've said it outloud. I should have written my novels, by now. I've written some of the nonfiction, but that doesn't sing and I long to fill the air with music. Not enough to do it, though, apparently -- and I'm not getting any younger.
There's that self-destructive, self-loathing rage that I can't express without irreparable harm. Everyday I think about my father, getting pretty old now, isolated in his high tower, probably in a pretty bad way, and I feel empathy and pity, but he got that when I was a child, as well, and that certainly cannot be the order of things, a small boy pitying his father. Point is, his demand for it was toxic, and damaging to the children entrusted to his care, and now I am simply repulsed by the idea of him. All this talk in the news about coaches abusing boys. I have no memories of anything like that. But I'm so fucked up.
I have a lot more energy now that I'm getting some sleep. Kind of disorganized though. Someone is telling me I should enter the CrossFit Games next year, but it's only like six months from now and I'm not ready. Not strong enough. Not really motivated either. Encouragement helps. It's how I think of myself, as an encourager. I like that about myself. But nobody can live anyone else's life for them. A very painful lesson -- that we can hardly even help anyone, let alone save them.
I said tonight that I must be a lot easier to get along with now, than some years ago. I always had to be right, in those days. I still want to be right, but I can keep my mouth shut. As I've said before, when a child falls, it's not the bump that hurts. It's the idea that no one cares. Kiss the child, not the booboo. We all want to feel good, or better. It's surprising how good a hand on the back can feel. I had forgotten.