Pretty soon, very soon, I will be another year older. For all practical purposes, it could be said that I am already that year older. I mean, what is a few days, really? Providing I do not meant some unfortunate end between now and the actual date that signifies my eruption into this world, I really cannot see what a few days matters. Not at all. In fact, you could say that I started dreading this day last year, or the year before, or the year before.
But I am getting ahead of myself. Way ahead. I have already told you, dear Reader, what this voyage into my hackery is all about. I left no suspense, and probably little reason for you to read on and discover what other sort of drivel may be involved in this posting; little reason to read on and find out what this is really about. That is one of the big problems with ADD and writing. Sometimes you put the end first. Or the middle first.
Living a life with competing mental issues is a strange existence. On the one hand, ADD gives me a bouncy, be-bop way of thinking. Sometimes my brain feels like Coltrane, or Davis, or Parker composed my thoughts. Twisting and churning, solos turn into chorus, turn into a main theme. Often I am the only one able to get the theme; improvisation is cruel like that. By the time the
listener reader gets my words, the message has turned into a jumbled, foot-tapping beat. Unless you are hip to what I am laying down in the first place, very little may make sense.
When it comes to the other participant in the competition to make me a total mental fruit cake to the observer, OCD…let us just say that I find myself in a world completely alone. Like that fellow in from “The Twilight Zone” who was the last man on Earth and had a library full of books I more often than not find myself alone in a world that just does not get me. Sure, everyone “understands” hoarders (not really, but you get what I mean…if not, keep reading, you may dig my vibe). Beyond those future guests on “American Pickers,” when people think of OCD, they think of some poor schmuck stuck wearing latex gloves to protect from microbes (I have issues with germs, I just try to avoid touching things that are not mine, or letting people touch my things). They think of someone who has to have an immaculate house, or their clothing perfectly, fanatically organized. Most people, however, do not understand rituals, the necessity of ritual, or the sense that every single thing in the world will go wrong if the ritual is not followed.
The biggest example of this has been writing my blog. Really. I tried extremely hard to be consistent. To write as often as possible. I did the same with reading the blogs that I follow (I even tried to steal a creative device from this blog. I am really freaking out because I am not sure this damn app will insert that link correctly…). The problem for me has been this iPad and the stupid app WordPress has developed for using the site. You see, I like to add pictures to my posts. While I can still add them using the app, I cannot place the pictures where I would like them to be, or give them some groovy format. No, I cannot do any of that. Instead, if I add a picture, it will show up in the top center of my word vomit, preceding everything. It will show up there, looming like some flaccid erection or self-important god-head glorifying in the fact that it gets to be wherever it wants to be and not where I want it to be. My choice? Either accept that, or just do not use a picture. Oh, I could add one later. That is another option. An option that sucks donkey-ass because I hate editing — the idea of going in and retro-adding something makes me feel dirty. And not in a way that I do not mind feeling dirty. Since the picture was not there, adding it later destroys the self-perceived perfection of what I have presented.
And then there is MySpace. Oy gevalt, MySpace! I was finally able to download my blog from MySpace. Hooray, right? Wrong. The format is not one that is easily uploaded to WordPress. Fortunately, not being able to import them has actually been a blessing is disguise: I have to go through them, check the editing, and selectively reprint the items that may have been breaches of the Fourth Wall. So, goody for me on that point.
Beyond my BD (Blog Dysfunction. Bob Dole needs to do a commercial about this. Where is Bob Dole lately?), the other rituals I follow appear (to me) to others as quirks that I can just “get over.” I cannot just get over some things. My seven-knock is not something that is a minor quirk to me. My morning rituals that I follow are not just “things I like to do” or “want to do.” No, these are things that if I do not do them, then the rest of my day is totally shot. I get horribly depressed and chalk the day up to a loss. Something terrible is going to befall me since the rhythm of my life has been irreparably dashed to rocks. OCD is not bebop; it is more like classical music: if one note is missed, the whole symphony notices it. There is no common theme that is to be recognized amidst the running improvs. Classical music is as the conductor wants, which is typically how the composer wrote it. After the rhythm is broken all that is left for me is to wait for the next day to see if it all starts up correctly…if the ritual will be left in tact.
Ritual is what makes me avoid Catholic Churches now, I get sucked into the Catholic ritual (and now this new Pope has me contemplating a return to those roots…). Ritual is what makes me start a knock and feel compelled to finish it somewhere else if someone answers my knocks before I finish them. Ritual is what makes or breaks my day. Ritual Is.
And now, for my ritual companion: obsession. I am never what component of OCD ritual belongs to; is it compulsion, or obsession? I always stop listening to my shrink when she tries to explain that to me. Perhaps being obsessed compels? Eh. In either case, I have obsessions. Many obsessions. However, more often than not, my obsessions go dismissed as things that I simply like or desire. However, it is not that simple. I am a Sagittarius. I crave excitement. I crave the sense of mutability that fire brings to my sign. What I mean is, I can roll with change as long as it brings excitement. Lately, all of the changes in my existence have been bringing me grief. This is gone. That is delayed. Where am I going? Nowhere. Fundamentally, I am not the same person I used to be. Xavier used to be sex-crazed, absinthe swilling, gun-toting, high-flying limousine riding, monster of cock. Now, he has turned into a hermitic, bored, frustrated ball of depression and doubt. Xavier has ceased to be; in his place an “old man.”
Which brings me back around to the new doom looming over my skull like one of those hideous baseball caps with the mesh backs that truckers and farmers are so fond of. Well, I guess it is not new doom — it is the doom that surfaces every years around this time. The doom that signifies getting
old, more advanced in years. To me, all the upcoming year represents is another day closer to Parkinson’s, heart disease, the possibility of having to get one of those wretched canes, or some other mobility assistance device. To me the upcoming year represents gray, and wrinkles, and ugly, and “who wants a threesome/orgy/sex party romantic evening with a hideous old geezer”? To me I am going from sexy to dirty old man. To me my desires and dreams have all become distant fantasies: teases of things that will never be a part of my world again. Then I will die, and that will be it. Another birthday, another day close to death…just like every other day. To me, all that birthdays bring are depression fueled by memories of days gone past. Fortunately, I do still have my lovely locks and the Thunderdome. Two of of seven would not be so bad if there were somewhere for me to finish this particular set of knocks…