when writing’s therapy, relief, illumination, rattling chains of bondage

Call me a schmuck. A tool. A slave yearning to be free.

But I’m finding it so painfully hard to get excited about remaining any — or all — of the above.

I’m finding it extremely difficult to get all excited about applying for menial jobs that pay minimum wage — aka Lame Crap Jobs.

I’m really unenthused about it. I’m deeply unenthused about reducing myself to the size of an ant — an ant with broken legs, at that! — on applications so that I might have a shot at a job.

A job that in a month I’ll come to hate in one way or another for one reason or another.

I’m tired of being a tool. There’s loaded and deep history here and it began with my dad.

Discovering and rediscovering — it’s some of each — my own creativity and calling are much harder than you’d think. It’s because the roots of slavery are so deep, complicated and woven into my sense of self. The self that I was FORCED to be as a child, not the Self that I truly am. My dad really did a number on me when it comes to jobs and slavery.

Very hard these days to get excited about just another Lame Crap Job. Just another means to bring me down and destroy my life.

I know I SHOULD be excited. I know I SHOULD NOT CARE. About myself. My true self. y calling and passions ad nature and purpose. I KNOW that A JOB IS A JOB. That is from God himself — God being my father. A dictate that should’ve made it into Scripture but somehow got overlooked.

I KNOW that I’ve no right to want anything for myself. It’s all about THE JOB. And doing the job as if you don’t matter. Because you don’t.

I know my father would beat me up pretty harshly inside the head (and he does) because I’m NOT excited about about applying for menial jobs that are the Source of Darkness and misery for me.

I know he’d say that I’m somehow wrong BECAUSE I can’t get excited about crap lame jobs that I will hate.

Emotion has no part in the Job Pathos. Neither does heart or dreams or passion or purpose.

It’s ALL about being a tool. Producing. Like an automan. Like a robot.

Now don’t get me wrong. THOSE rules that he so shoved down my throat do not apply to HIM. In many ways, he was a prime example of “do as I say, not as I do.” The Rule of Slavery that he forced upon me was a 1-way dictate. That absence of fairness — that is, what he so imposed upon others he did not impose upon myself — really pisses me off still.

Don’t get me wrong. I love my father to death. But he could be a real son of a bitch too and it’s only recently, deep into my 5th decade of living, that I’m truly beginning to traumas and depths of the Forces that So Shaped Me that are Not of Me.

* * *

Hard to get excited about continuing to scrub toilets and floors. My dad would tell me I’m wrong for that. That I should be excited because It’s a Job.

Hard to get excited about dishwashing again. I’m wrong to feel that way. Because It’s a Job.

Hard to get excited about going back to home health care or warehouse work or Pick Any Other Lame Crap Job I’ve done in these many years of a life wasted — and lord knows there’s a mountain to pick from! But I’ve no right to feel badly. Because It’s Job.

I know my father was capable of more. Capable of teaching me better than I was given around Work vs. Job. I know because the rules toward freedom and creativity and self-expression that he allowed for himself were NOT allowed for others, including me.

If he’d allowed me to work by my heart and dreams and desires and life purpose in the same way that he allowed HIMSELF to do so, I would be a very very different person right now. I’d be on path. And never ever would have wasted a good half of my working life being a Slave to Someone Else instead of free.

I’m speaking circuitously because this stuff is that difficult to articulate. I’m early in the Discovery Phase. Discovering the traumas and true impact that my father had on me. In life. And, notably, in Work vs. Job.

I know I ought not quest.

I know I ought not reach for a star. I ought not even THINK about having a guiding star of my own.

I know I ought to stay bound in chains of consciousness. That I ought to remain bound by duty and (enslaved) service to others and have no will or desire for better.

I know that I ought never think of or give credence to any desire or dream of my own. That’s wrong. It’s all about The Job. And remaining beholden to and loyal to the Master.

And he indeed was the Master, my dad.

And in my head, lo these 58 years later, he still is.

The hardest part, I’m finding, in getting free of the chains of slavery is not the actually unlocking of the shackles.

It is acquiring the self-worth that you never had — you never received it, was never taught it, was denied it or refused it in harsh psychological and/or physical beatings.

The hardest part in any journey of healing and freedom lies not in liberating one’s self from what was done and imposed upon you but in CREATING what one never had.

Possibly the hardest of all.

{this post was actually written around April 4 but due to a router outage at the cafe, delivery was delayed.}

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