wow. i dont know what to say about the last few days--other then you rarely fully understand the power of sleep until you dont have any. i guess sleep is like all things really--only fully appreciated when you dont have them anymore. i know some people can appreciate what they have, when they have it, but not me--not so much. sometimes but not that often. most of the time i go swimmingly about my day only to one day miss something that seems like it was just there a minute ago. then i romanticize the living hell out of that thing or person or job or event until it barey resembles the actual event...it is weird. like a self designed regret tool.

i dont know how or why i thought of this romanticizing things topic. probably because i am blind tired and yet unable to sleep. i got thinking about various relationships and events that i tell myself were one way when really they were many different ways. some good. some not so good. revisionist history. in the moment i see the shades of gray that most people, events and things fall into but somehow once something or someone is squarely in my past--they go into this sort of weird black or white category. i dont really understand it. then i very stealthly compare my new black or white memory to my current gray reality. thus perpetuating my very own semi-permenant state of discontent.

maybe i am not really a family worker at all but deep down just a story teller looking for a fix. constantly fascinated by both my own life and everyone elses. i tell my stories about my life and call it the truth. i tell stories about other peoples lives, as i see them, and call that the truth. constantly forgetting that there is no real truth separate from me. no real story separate from the story teller. it reminds me of something i heard recently on vpr. an author speaking about how the narrator of his story was ultimately not to be really trusted but the entire time you are reading you dont know this. you take the narrators story as the truth. it is a given. i dont know about this anymore. dont know what my story is. i just know that i need to keep telling it until i figure it out. carefully pulling the truth out of the fiction.

somehow writing helps me do this. i see the words and i feel like i am getting closer to my own truth or i see the words and call bullshit on myself and delete them. either way, i am working on it. a work in progress. sometimes i like my progress and sometimes i just feel like a fraud and hope nobody notices. tonite, a little tired, a little discouraged, a little unsure, i sit here alone in the dark w/ a computer. i know this writing is just for me but somehow it helps that you--whoever you are are reading.

i'll end by saying that i used to love bars of any and all kind. i would sit down, have a drink, and just instantly feel connected to people. i'd sit there imagining all of the people at the bar connected by these thin lines. then i'd feel what i then thought was true happiness. tonite, as usual, i feel this way as i finish my entry. when i write i feel connected, i guess mostly to me, but to you too. hope you feel it too. another sober night. another morning i'll remember. true happiness--or at least getting closer. xx