Last evening was one of those in which I became keenly aware of just how alone I am in life. I had run overlong with finalizing yesterday's post in this blog, and it was already after 8 p.m. by the time I had the post published and then bathed, and was able to go downstairs for a quick small supper.
I needed to be set to repair to my bedroom at the sight of my younger brother's homecoming if he was any later than 8:30 p.m., for I cannot risk his state anymore when he comes home that late after wherever he has been drinking.
My two stepsons were home, but we hardly ever commune. They remain in their den area when they are not in the kitchen. The living room and the T.V. are strictly where my brother and I hang out, for the lads never watch T.V. with us.
It was too late for me to tune in anything, so I just sat eating my small supper as I listened to the stereo and watched for my brother's arrival ─ I can easily view the cul-de-sac outside and the mouth of our driveway from where I was seated.
Well, 8:30 p.m. arrived. But not five minutes thereafter, I witnessed my brother finally showing up.
A deadline is a deadline, even when missed by a very few or even a single minute, so I hustled upstairs to my bedroom to finish my meal behind the closed bedroom door.
While I was downstairs eating in the darkened living room, I had occasion to reflect upon how singularly lonely I am, but I generally fail to have much sense of it. I was feeling it there in the living room.
And then as I self-isolated in my bedroom to finish my meal before finally going to bed around 8:53 p.m., that awareness of how lonely I am was even more intense.
My brother can barely wait each day to get away in the early afternoon to ultimately resume his drinking somewhere, thereby rendering himself ─ in all likelihood ─ unbearable from my perspective.
I love my two stepsons, but we have nothing in common and rarely consort.
My wife and I have not been intimate in over 7½ years, and she spends most of her free time somewhere in Vancouver. She only stays home during the workweek when she is faced with her part-time schedule working at the Thai restaurant that employs her. The restaurant is located in a direction opposite to that of Vancouver when viewed from our home as a starting point, so it is to her great inconvenience to commute to or from the restaurant if she remained hanging out in Vancouver. Thus, she will spend time here at home weekdays. Besides, as said, her two sons are resident here ─ the bond among the three of them is profound.
Of late, however, she doesn't seem to have a word to say to me ─ kind or otherwise.
And I have no friends near ─ no one with whom I can spend time and share burdens and woes with. I essentially live in isolation ─ not just when I am shut up behind my bedroom's closed door.
I do not drive; and at the age of 71, I am practically housebound because of that. Compounding the effectiveness of that containment is the overwhelming credit debt that I have allowed my wife to plunge me into over the years since she came here to Canada to live with me over 14 years ago.
In addition, I have certain physical woes that I care not to discuss, but which further demean my sense of overall self-respect. I feel like I am dying off in increments ─ more and more, things just don't work like they should or once did.
It seems like I have pleaded and begged God for the bulk of my life to help me, and I honestly cannot say that a prayer has ever been answered. And with the inexorable failure of my marriage, His utter absence of care or concern reinforces that conclusion.
It also impresses within me the conviction that I am unworthy of His regard. I have no special purpose ─ no reason for being. I am unworthy of His benign sustainment; and further, my marriage is as nothing to Him.
I am saying too much. I ought not have posted anything today. Suffice it that when I turned off the bedside lamp last evening and settled into my bed, there were some tears that God can be so monstrous.
It is nearly 7:30 p.m. Believe it or not, I think that I might just locate myself a Christmas movie, and watch as much of it as I can while enhancing the mood with some beer. A good movie ought to generate some tears as I reminisce about the hearty warmth of Christmases I will never again know.
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