Stage Craft

Dear Diary

This entry is precipitated by my unhappiness. I guess I'm depressed, not suicidal or climb the clock tower depressed, but sad.

I'm 52 and I'm not happy with my life.

I'm married. I have 6 kids and 4 grandkids. I have a job. I've got money in the bank and not so much debt I'm afraid we'll live on the street or be eating cat food.

I've committed no grave sins or serious crimes. I might have thought about a few but ultimately hurting other people makes me feel bad.

I suppose it has to do with what I've wanted to do with my life: Change the world. I started another blog a few years ago with the idea that my insightful commentary on the state of the world would draw a fascinated audience of true believers who would marshal together to overthrow the Bush-Cheney corporate theocracy dominating our country.

Of the five hits I got I think I was two of them.

When I was a kid I wrote stories and played guitar. Now I write stories and play guitar.

While my writing and musicianship has improved I'm not paying the bills with either of these talents. In fact I don't seem to be able to move ahead at all with them.

Once upon a time I thought I could be a leader with my organization. Leadership didn't agree. And today I thank them. I don't have the mindset needed to just drink the f$^%ing Kool-aid.

Twenty years ago I met a woman, had drinks with her and invited her back to my place where I promptly embarrassed myself by passing out. Today we're married, still in love and she's dying. I really hate that.

I suppose the absolute honesty of a diary requires me to state that I actually know why I'm depressed. The woman I love and I can't live the life we dreamed of even if I had all the money or success or fulfillment I could ever imagine.

None of it would really matter. None of it does matter.

She just called to me, wondering what I'm doing. She probably thinks I'm looking at porn or something. I can't show her this. How could I have her know just how frightened and sad I am. It would just make her feel like it's her fault for getting sick.

So, dear diary, let's just keep this between ourselves. I'd rather not burden her.