November is in full swing and I’m plodding along, looking somewhat eagerly to the impending holiday breaks. I’m so tired today, it’s borderline concerning. I often joke that I’m never-not-tired, but the last few days have been markedly worse in terms of fatigue. It’s not a “can’t get out of bed” malaise, just more of a “been toiling in the salt mines” weariness. Of course, in my fucked-up brain I’ve already entertained about a dozen possible terminal diagnoses, but I’m still thankfully in control of my senses enough that I’ve not let it spiral into absurdity. I took a personal day to recuperate and unfuck my head a bit, but the kittens woke me up around 5am wanting food. Kara’s been out of town for a week now and dealing with every aspect of the menagerie has been solely on my shoulders. Not surprisingly, this coincides almost perfectly with my recent exhaustion.
My primary motivation for writing today, however, is an upcoming trip “home” I have scheduled for Thanksgiving. I’ll be in El Paso for about 48 hours, mostly at the behest of my aunt. I haven’t actually spoken with her about my visit… come to think of it, I haven’t talked to her at all since late September, though I have gotten the occasional forwarded e-mail. Going back to El Paso is never a particularly pleasant experience for me and I mostly do it out of a sense of obligation to my family. I’m kind of an asshole about it, admittedly. I come to town and the onus is on them to invite me over or otherwise make plans. I’ve already done the heavy lifting of getting on a plane and flying 800 miles,they can coordinate the activities. I have gone to El Paso and not seen anyone before because they never got back to me about getting together.
My relationship with my family is a difficult one. Other than some distant cousins I only see every few years, everyone is far older than me and I can’t help but feel like the foolish child I used to be when I’m around them. We also have very little in common in terms of interests, beliefs, and the like. I never quite know what to say and it ends up feeling like an interrogation more than anything else. Why am I not married? When am I going to lose weight? Have I taken care of my storage unit yet? Essentially, it’s a parade of my apparent failures. Is it any wonder that I don’t exactly look forward to these little visits?
