February 1991

February 4, 1991
Dream - mother & father, roles reversed. They are poor, father working class luck, I am well-established. There is a chipped cola glass, father reading "Buds & Insects" about giant insects that eat people.

February 7, 1991
Again, a long time passes without writing. I am going to my third meeting with Liz Slocum, my therapist. I talked with Brent Isaacs last night from work. I am feeling very bad lately, mostly due to my work. In over a year no-one has had the decency to review my performance or offer me a raise. Brenda thinks I am worth whatever I ask, and that there is no reason at all that my so-called "demands" wouldn't be met. Even Wayne Vannoy has told me several times this week that I am doing a great job. I may bring this up this evening at my therapy - maybe not. I don't seem to have much strength to even ask for what I want anymore. Or ever…

February 19, 1991
I seem to be getting worse and worse at this. But it is so hard to commit to writing when there is mostly bad news to tell. I am bulimic, or at least I have a compulsive eating disorder. I am alone in this, in that I can not go to Carolyn for help since she "sometimes feels like being supportive and helping you and sometimes feel like telling you to do it yourself; you're a big boy…" Very lonely. We owe big heap taxes - $1,1914.00. Shoulda bought that condo. We have, however, developed a plan to pay off our taxes, and pay off our credit cards by June 30. I will hopefully still be writing in here so as to let you know the day we do. I am continuing my therapy, but have dropped a class (English) due to the burdensome schedule. I really enjoy the break between my Monday computer class and my Wednesday environmental science class. My photo class is going well on Saturday, too; though I can't get Carolyn to pose for a picture in my mind of a naked body, blindfolded and gagged, tied face to a tree, hands roped behind the back. Some image I saw of war and feel that I have my own weapon of protest in that image. Work is not-so-good. Liz Slocum (therapist) said I should write a letter to Ken Plock expressing anger and the feelings I have about my missed review… maybe tomorrow. Enough has passed tonight. So, until then…

February 24, 1991
Another Sunday, another meeting missed. The old ACA draw just isn't there so much anymore. I suppose I should be looking for an OA, though for my eating disorder… compulsive overeating, that would be. Threw a surprise party for Carolyn's 21st birthday and pretty much slept all day. I don't know if that is a reward to my body or a retreat from my responsibilities. Example, I did not go into the office to work on a report that I need, nor did I take any photographs, nor did I try to catch up on my environmental class. Again, I ask, which is it? Carolyn and I will begin to ride our bikes to work again tomorrow and I suppose that is a positive step. Maybe some lunch hour I will write that letter to Ken about my feelings at being ignored in my reviews. Then again, I may just read…

February 28, 1991
The end of a month… the end of my life? I wish I could enclose the entire contents of the letter I drafted to Carolyn on the computer. I tell of my anger & rage at a situation last night that ended with me choosing to sleep on a couch rather than get near her. It deals with homosexuality and indiscretion. It covers feelings of trust and lack of respect. In short, it expresses the decline of a human being from a semi-prosperous, intelligent man to a scared, insane, crazed child. So ill, I continue destructive patterns, force loved ones away, and hurt myself with emotional battery.

February 28, 1991 (later)
I sin & I sit. I am now in a bar across from my therapist's, drinking a beer, smoking a stick & watching a cute UCI student play pinball. I spent the earlier part of the eve driving through the hills in Orange & watching the windows of 4453 East Alderdale. That address should be abundantly clear. I have been listening to Chess, especially "When I was nine…" I have also been getting more and more scared about my situation at home. Thinking about the letter I wrote and what I will find when I return home. Not to mention what I will find at work tomorrow. I honestly think I will die if she is home and waiting to talk. Then again, if she is not there, it means life as I know it is over. I thought of a poem yesterday, and I will try to put down the ideas here. I am also scared that Liz will declare me insane and not release me to drive home.

Trapped in walls that areoutrageously tall.So tall they seem to converge and blot the light of sun.Bleak and black. Darkness.How frightening to be trapped.More frightening that the walls aremade by me.

That is something like it. When I first thought of it, it had more "G" sounds, harder, bleaker, more brutal. The student is now playing pool, offering great views of his ass. He also began to smoke when I lit up. Coincidence, or irony? Love the way he bends in his 501's. And I sit here wondering what his mind is processing: "Why is that fat guy watching me? Why is he making notes in that book?" Christ! He has a hole in his jeans right at the crotch!
We spoke! Eye contact! Maybe I do need out of this marriage. I know I need to lose weight. Being single may be the encouragement I need. I sure as hell won't score any points in my current physical condition.
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