old. (from february 2008)

I pass by the house every day on my afternoon run, little, yellow, perfect, in this quiet neighborhood in this relatively flat part of Hillsboro. Up until yesterday, the FOR SALE sign hung limply in the front yard, comparatively small, with a slight decline before reaching the sidewalk. I have no idea how much the house costs (or cost, I suppose), nor the square footage, nor the size of the garage nor anything else about it; all I know is that I passed by it every day since October, and the familiarity of its solitude became that sort of possessive marker objects tend to accrue when part of a routine. Cloudy or sunny, rain, snow, dust–whatever might have been on, in, or around my bus, and that house still looked as bright yellow as ever, reminding me of my parents’ house before mom painted it.If I weren’t the fuck-up I am trying difficult not to be, if I’d actually bothered to think about the shit I earned and wanted in my life, I’d have mustered enough currency to put a down payment on that house. It’d be a tight squeeze, but with the right person, I’d have been able to take care of the bills as a bus driver–and little else, at least until I understood exactly what goes into owning property, but I’d have been able to make it. Typing those words, it sinks in that, for all the strides I’ve made toward growing up, I’m still completely ignorant of the portions of the puzzle that make the stability I so desperately desire a functional thing.I’ve made more decisions based on fear, loneliness, and desperation than ones made using the intelligence I’m constantly reminded I possess. I have no idea whether or not I’m still doing that now; I wish I had any ideas other than sitting on this couch and letting the world come to me as it will. People make taking ownership of one’s own actions and ideas sound so easy, often as they’re pushing you into rallying behind their cause; I can say with complete honesty that I’ve never completely given myself to someone who hasn’t battered me in some way, badgered me into thinking something I was doing was completely wrong, regardless of how it felt.A fear I’d thought I’d shaken crept into my bones last week as I ground my teeth and fantasized about shutting everyone the fuck up. Rather than share the situation in question, I’ll skip ahead to its sister occurrence on monday morning, in which one of my fellow drivers got condescending with me in a way that made me snap and cuss him out publicly (not in front of kids–shut the fuck up and remember I’m smart enough to have some discretion). It felt good to express some measure of pride in myself and my abilities, but the fact that it wasn’t enough made me worry. In both scenarios, the wrath I carried and gave birth to during the emotional hell Erin put me through awoke, whispering the embryonic syllables preceding an explosion, and it took the strength I’d re-built not to explode in a grander and, ultimately, more-satisfactory fashion.I love my anger, don’t get me wrong, but I worry about letting it burn me out. Again.


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