Moving Blues

I would like to write here more. Not necessarily because vanity would have me procure an audience, though that is a consideration. No, I need to write here more so that I can keep my writing skills up, mostly and mainly to keep my sanity.

I am a sensitive man. This is a benefit to me in numerous ways; ways like, when I create anything I do so with a lot of heart. I appreciate and hold in high esteem sincerity; when I love, I do so passionately. I empathize like a pro. All good aspects.

On the flip side, I can be a moody. The depth at which I feel love is just as deep as when I feel anger, sadness, or even hate. (Knowing this I try my damnedest to never hate). I disdain dishonesty or “fakers”, despite recognizing how white lies and polite fakery facilitates socialization. If I am dispassionate about something, it is really hard to hold interest, especially when applied to hobbies, work, or, and I am deeply saddened to admit, loves. I particularly lament the lost loves.

Why start this entry this way?

I went to help a family member move. She asked me to do her a favor and I readily said “yes”.  I want to be nice, I want to strengthen bonds, I want to be a good guy. When moving day arrives, I am none of those; I am not nice, I burn bonds, I am less than a good guy, I am a very angry one . . . I debate on this situation or if I am righteous in reacting like a moody jerk.

Let’s state this another way: when you ask for a favor that favor comes with some ethics. You, in asking for the favor, want to be considerate to those going out of their way for you. You do not want to take advantage or belabor the people who are helping you.

In this situation, when you ask me to help you move, please don’t make me wait while you scramble to do last minute chores especially when you have had two weeks notice when we are doing the deed. Don’t leave the house a mess. Please don’t leave pathways cluttered with large objects and then complain or be particular about how or where those objects are moved because you failed to consider such things. Don’t be doing a last minute load of laundry when moving the washer and drier are the center pieces of the move. Don’t get upset when your particular directions on moving particular things are not followed; the considerations extended to you are washed away in light of the discourtesies you have shown. All of these complaints are compounded when I don’t charge, monetarily or in asking for favors of my own, for my time and effort . . .

I  was and still am very angry about yesterday. I helped a family member move and she, unintentionally not maliciously, made the move far more difficult than it should have been. My patience was exhausted fast, I spent the latter half of the move laboring under some vague ideal of familial obligation. I hate obligations.

I reflect on it all and am still coming to terms with it. How angry should I be? Am I allowed to be? How can I reconcile all this? Among my all to fertile thoughts come concerns about my own hypocrisies; she’s family so how much of that inconsiderate DNA is in my actions? How many courtesies have i neglected in extending to those who have helped me? And all that existential jazz.

I know that the anger I feel, as righteous as I believe it to be, should not bleed over into my time with my girlfriend, who is innocent in all of this. She deserves to be spared the negative emotions I am still radiating, thus I labor to exhaust myself of icky feelings before she finds her time with me exhausting. Before I fail to make the labor of loving me, harder than is has to be.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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