Off the Pale Horse

August 19, 2024

This is dumb. I don’t want to do this. I don’t know what to write.

blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah

August 20, 2024

Okay, let’s try this again.

My shrink says I can be honest with my diary. Fat chance. Still, I might as well try.

My name’s Mortimer, Morty if it pleases you. Ha ha, very funny. I took the name when I retired. I’m in therapy because I’m having a hard time letting go of my job.

Okay, that’s enough for today.

August 23, 2024

I was in collections, after a fashion. You meet a lot of people in collections, and it’s rarely at a good moment in their lives. I’ve been told that others in my line of work feel like intruders. I never did. I guess I always figured if it’s part of the job it was something I could feel okay about. And it wasn’t like I was cold calling for something irrelevant. It was always something that had to be done. That didn’t always mean it was easy. Far from it. But it was just the job. You went with it.

So why am I having so many problems now that it’s over? I don’t know.

August 25, 2024

I had a bit of a revelation today, and I thought I’d write it down.

It was in Iowa, close to the end of my tenure. I was collecting on a widow. He lived alone in a cramped, messy apartment that had long lost a woman’s touch. He was eating dinner when I called, a baked potato with salt and butter. Unlike most of the people I encounter, he was expecting me.

I told him why I was there, and he told me he was happy to see me. I still remember the phrase he used: “the bill always comes due.” Which is exactly the truth, though it was rare that my collectees said it so plainly. A lot of people have a hard time accepting that everything is just a loan. And whether or not you choose the debt, the debt is yours, and you have to do something with it if you want to pay it back.

And that’s what I realized. You know what I did last night? Cleaned my apartment. Ate a baked potato in front of the TV. Fell asleep on the couch. Knowing at any moment my own bill will come due. I’m wasting it, just like all the poor saps I collected on.

What is wrong with me? I should know better.

August 27, 2024

My shrink is happy that the diary is “helping me process my emotions.” Making me depressed, more like.

She encouraged me to get out and meet people. So that’s what I tried to do. After my session I went out to Waffle Hut. I ordered my food and tried to chat with the waiter. He was kind, but distantly so, in the way wait staff can be. I can’t blame him, of course, it’s a hard job. I met a lot of waiters and waitresses in my line of work, and never on a good day. But I went home feeling awkward and discouraged. I suppose I should be happy that that much is apparent to me. Yeah, right.

August 30, 2024

I spoke to a colleague today.

I must have looked a fool, sitting on the floor next to a fried outlet. That’s the impression I got from the conversation that followed, anyway. The first thing my replacement said to me was, “What are you doing?” I couldn't answer them at the time. In retrospect, I think I was just desperate for someone to talk to. For someone who understands.

So we talked for a while, one of those conversations that feels like it goes on longer than it actually does. Most of it was chastisement, a little self-recrimination on my part. Nothing constructive. Though they did say something that stuck with me, that I’ve been turning over in my head. “What do any of us know about life? That’s not the job.” They left not long after that. I feel strangely fine, but I’m going to the hospital after I’m done writing this. We’ll see.

September 12, 2024

Just back home from the hospital. The physical damage was luckily minimal, but I was quickly transferred to a psych ward after my made-up story didn’t add up.

While I was waiting to be admitted to the ward they were onboarding another patient. She was belligerent, obviously having a psychotic episode, which I tried my best to ignore. But as I was eating my potatoes and green beans, this woman decides she’s going to punch me in the back of the head before attacking the orderly. I sat there in a daze while doctors and security staff streamed in, cornered the woman and injected her with haldol or something. One of the nurses turned to me and said, “Welcome to St. Charles.” I couldn’t help but laugh.

For all that, it was a pleasant enough stay. Very clean, food was good. And it gave me a lot of time to think and live outside of the patterns I had established for myself. There was one patient, Martin, who gave me a lot to think about in particular. He has schizophrenia and is very symptomatic, especially regarding his speech. He rambles out random factoids about old 80s toys and cartoons, treating them many times as though they are real. I got the sense he thought he was a secret agent, and thought I was as well.

But the damndest thing was, he was exceedingly jolly. He was always kind and generous, always saying hello and asking how people were in his own strange way. He was obviously, overwhelmingly happy.

If he can be happy, why can’t I? That’s what I have to figure out.

September 15, 2024

It occurs to me that maybe I’m trying too hard.

October 3, 2024

I haven’t written in a long time, and for some dumb reason I feel sorry about it. A strange thing to feel, but there it is. But my shrink convinced me to pick it up again, so here I am.

It’s been over a month since the incident, and I feel like a fool. The truth is I like this whole life thing. I just don’t know what to do with it. I keep thinking back to the schizophrenic man in the ward, his kindly smile, his waving hand as he passed by for the fourth time that day. It may just be me, but I don’t believe he thinks that hard about what to do with his life at all. He just does it, and is happy with what he does. That’s the impression I get, anyway. And I think maybe I began to realize that before I stopped writing here.

I believe it’s said, “Life is what happens when we’re busy making other plans.” Presented with my life at the end of so much time, I think I felt the need to make the most of it. To direct it, plan it. And how’d that work out for me?

Maybe that’s not how to live a life worth living.

October 5, 2024

I can’t let go because what I did gave me purpose. Collections was what I was, the way people ask adults, “What do you do?” before they ask, “What do you want to be?” The truth of it is that the latter is the better question, and not just a question for children. We are in control of our happiness. It may sound like a way to cope, but it’s true. If you’re unhappy, it is on you to do something about it. That is what it really means to be an adult. Not being a productive member of society, but being the one in charge of and responsible for what you make of your life. Trying too hard just made me miserable, but I just kept on trying. That was my failing. It’s time to do something different.

Today I posted flyers in the coffee shops around town. I’m starting a book club. While I was doing it I got to talk to a lovely young woman who asked me about my favorite books. I bashfully admitted that I don’t have any yet, but I’m hoping to change that. She smiled, warm and understanding, and said she’d be my first recruit.

I am light. I am aflutter. Life’s possibilities seem, for once, infinite, all because I finally refused to funnel myself down a road that wasn’t meant for me. I don’t know if it’ll work out. It sure won’t work out the way I expect. But I’m excited to see what will come of it.

If you don’t hear from me, I hope it’s because I’m too busy living.