Gun Oil And My Royal Typewriter

There's a diconcerting ache throbbing betwixt my legs right now, like a hernia or a slipped disc in the back. But it's not either one of those things, of course. I've been looking for reasons to put off my surgery. I told my father to try to get into surgery earlier, which would "force" me into putting my orchiectomy off until who knows when. But he's certain that his date isn't until late January or early February, so mine doesn't represent a logictical problem. Right now, however, I'm glad that my ruse didn't work. This hurts.

I wonder how all my friends are doing, and my brother, too. I'm a lonely son of a bitch these days, which isn't uncommon for a person with Avoidant Personality Disorder. Social phobia prevents social activity, but loneliness triggers depression. Not clinical depression, just the natural sort of enervation and ennui that anyone would experience in the absence of human company. I've taken up reading Ray Bradbuy's "The Martian Chronicles" and "Dandelion Wine," both of which I read when I was a teenager. They're ascomforting as a warm blanket on a cold night. I'm probably going to take up reading some Kurt Vonnegut again, too. They make me feel less alone, for different reasons. Bradbury reminds me of when I thought I could become an author. Back in the day I used a very old Royal typewriter that wasn't even electric. The clakitty-clack-clack of those keys is like music. I still have it, but all romance aside, it's an awful pain in the ass to use. Computers are ruthlessly efficient tools. Bradbury brings a little of that optimism to mind. Sometimes I get the smell of gun oil in my nose, which I used to keep my Royal in tip-top shape. Vonnegut was introduced to me by a co-worker and friend of mine at the DeCordova Museum, Mary. His novels transport me to a time before I went batshit, when I was a full-time university student. And both authors are just so fucking good at their craft, particularly Vonnegut.

I'm probably mentioned it before, but I'm also fond of Dostoevsky. His short story, "White Nights" really speaks to me. Adam and I, working at the aforementioned museum, would make fun of anyone who used that phrase. When a pretentious museum supporter stood in front of a piece and said, "That speaks to me," we both had to sneak away to the kitchen, where we could laugh our asses off. But Nastenka and her lonely, passionate lover really do speak to me. That story has been with me for awhile now. It's probably the most comforting thing I could read. That's why I've read it at least 20 times.

I do have friends, but I try not to write, call or otherwise try to contact them. I try, but I find it difficult. If they want to talk, they know where to find me and, since they know me so well, they know that I always look forward to it. People get busy, and when I don't hear from someone for awhile I try to keep that in mind. But my stomach also twists up and I become afraid. "Have I done something wrong?" I ask myself over and over again. Invariably, this leads to self-loathing and that to the comfort of those novels.

My friends are very, very important to me. I sometimes wonder if they know that they are in my mind, to one degree or another, almost all the time. I would do anything for them, they have but to ask. That may be why I seek solitude. Perhaps the greatest gift I could give to those I love is to leave them alone. To die, in a fashion. Dialectical Behavioral Therapy (DBT) teaches that negative thoughts like that can be avoided, and by avoiding them so can depression and anxiety, at least to some degree. I swear, though, that I'll be wondering until the day I die if it is true.