Everything feels wrong. The pandemic. Quarantine. Economic collapse. Unemployment. Racism. Violence by police. Violence against police. Outside agitators. Vandalism. Destruction. Theft. Curfew.
Hell, even Lady Gaga’s album is only so-so.
I live with chronic depression and acute anxiety.
And, friends, I’m cracking.
This shit is getting to me.
I’ve sworn off the news. Me. A 27-year newsman. I once got beat up in a Des Moines park after hours while covering violence in the park after hours. I wasn’t trying to be ironic. It just worked out there.
That was me.
Today, in a mess of free-flowing tear gas and pepper spray?
Admitting that to myself makes me feel … lesser.
I’ve no call to be there. I’m still doing my journalism, but I’m independent now.
If you’re going to get mixed up with cops, protesters and rioters, you better have a good brand name with access to lawyers.
So, I’m sidelined like an everyday citizen.
These distress the big chuck of me that fears missing out, that wants to be in the thick of it and wants to lead from the front.
Yet a sizable chunk of me feels relief that I’m out of the game.
Just typing that sentence forces me to choke down bile. It disgusts me that I’ve lost whatever it was that sent me running toward the fray with a police scanner on my belt and my Blackberry (yeah, I’m that old) Twitter feed open.
Now I’m just a morbidly obese unemployed guy desperately seeking jobs along with 10 million of my fellow Americans.
If I’m not a newsman, what I am?
The confusion of self-worth and employment is an ugly side effect of capitalism on personal psychology.
We all more than our jobs. Yet, we spent a lot of damn time on those jobs. What value do I have if I’m not producing anything?
If I’m not making money, then I must be a lowlife skimming off the bottom of society, getting by on government subsidies.
I want to contribute. But Wall Street told me to take a hike because after 22 years full-time, I made a salary just big enough to be too big for an industry burning to the ground before our eyes.
I struggle to sleep. More accurately, I struggle to get to sleep. Around 7 p.m., I start getting so edgy you could cut cheese on my raw nerves.
I know in a few hours the city will shut down. The quarantine gave way to the curfew.
There was a time I would be headed out to sling sentences and stack paragraphs. But I’m sidelined, probably permanently.
And that hurts.
I can’t go to the bar. It’s closed. Hell, I can’t even order a pizza.
I try to give my life some purpose. I make daily contact with my friends. I check in with my parents a couple times a week.
I’ve asked my friend Paul to call me when he leaves home for work in Memphis.
I’ll get up at the same time and start my day. I look for jobs, set up interviews for future columns and maybe write something that is less whiny than this.
Yes, I could set an alarm. But I will ignore that alarm. When my friend calls, I’ve made a commitment to another person to participate in the day despite my desperate desire just to check out.
Even with my buddy’s help, I just can’t seem to settle in. I feel like a house cat that sees some ghost on the spectral plain and then randomly sprints out of the room.
Except I don’t run and even if I did, I don’t know where I’d go.
I try escapism, my drug of choice. I put on some of the new Looney Tunes cartoons on the HBOMax streaming service last night.
They echoed the classics I watched as a kid, but they weren’t the same. They felt more frenetic and neutered at the same time.
Yosemite Sam doesn’t use guns anymore because of course not. Yet, poor Sylvester the cat was skinned and had his muscles peeled down to the bone in the kind of gross-out comedy I would expect from Ren and Stimpy.
But I will never be able to watch and enjoy new cartoons the way I did the ones I saw when I was a kid.
That’s because when I was a kid, my responsibility was to have pants and a shirt on, eat a bowl of cereal, generally be quiet in the early morning and not make a mess in the kitchen.
It was just me, my dad’s Navy cap from World War II and my Pink Panther doll, who was my very best friend.
To a 5-year-old, that’s all there is to the world: Saturday morning cartoons and peanut butter and grape jelly sandwiches.
Growing up brings responsibility. Rent. Mortgages. Car payments. Insurance. Bills. Still, even with that responsibility, there’s a rhythm.
These days, everything is out of step and unpredictable.
Unpredictable, like spontaneity, is overrated. Give me consistency and calm. I am 45 and I long for slow news days.
Mostly I just worry. I worry I’m not going to make it. All these years into adulthood and I’ve never felt closer to failure.
People have been generous supporting this blog and every little bit helps.
I’ve picked up one or two freelance jobs, but not enough to make monthly expenses once my severance dries up.
Unemployment is increased at least through July. There may be more stimulus. There may be expanded unemployment.
The coronavirus may peak. The racial unrest may settle.
I remember the words of wise, old Randy Evans when I used the word “may” in a news story many years ago.
“Finney, do you know what the problem with the word ‘may’ is?” he said. “You could just as easily say ‘may not.’”
Cut loose and cashiered by corporate media, lone paragraph stacker Daniel P. Finney makes his way telling stories about his city, state and nation. No more metrics or Google trends, he writes stories about people and life ignored by the oligarchy.