I am having a weird morning. Thoughts of jumbled thoughts. I get to serve tea to officials at a football game after school. Yippee. At least serving is something to do. It is hard for me to sit and be idle, and that is part of why the football games are hard for me. Doing nothing makes me anxious. It makes me feel trapped, like I am in a box, and I have to cope with that on top of just being too tired to put on a happy face.

Also, I think it brings out every frustration I think I have about living in Country X. I love Country X, but like many people you might love, it does at times drive me wild.

Country X men typically seem like small boys to me. Why exactly do I need to watch grown men run around and kick a ball? Are they seven and never had mommies to cheer them on in AYSO and we are filling an important developmental gap? Seriously, they can’t schedule their own pickup games? Really?

No, actually, they can’t. Adult men are like little lost souls here, no sense of purpose, no sense of responsibility, little sense of teamwork.

There are a few lovely Country X men here. And many—generally the big shots—who seem like overgrown toddlers. Like our principal. He is a very big toddler.

And most men pass their time drinking at bars and gambling, because they cannot find any direction and purpose. There are children who cannot read, a broken bridge about to fall down, trash everywhere, and they cannot figure out how to fill their time. Someone needs to schedule a football tournament so they can at least play games instead of being destructive. Drives me wild.

It brings up my greatest frustration with Country X, which is that I think people are basically delusional. No, your country is not peaceful. It is the most violent, angry place I have ever lived. If people had guns here, it would be a seriously dangerous place to be. Your salvation is lack of weapons. And fear. Here, they just pick on the weak and vulnerable. Like kids. And their wives. To some extent, that is human nature. I don’t hold this against them. It’s the lying I can’t stand. It’s the delusionality. I get fed up with putting on the fake smile. Yes, it’s peaceful. Oh, it’s peaceful only if there aren’t people around. Because the people are violent.

Also, people here are not happy. They frequently live empty, purposeless existences. They are just chronically bored. They don’t have that deep sense of contentment that comes from having a goals or a greater purpose. They are not happy. They are lazy.

End rant.

The thing is my Demanding Adult gets really annoyed that I cannot adequately pursue the things that feel deeply meaningful to me. There are little kids in my classes who can’t read. I would like to help them read better. Instead, I need to attend a football game every day for (not 2 weeks as previously thought), but nearly one month. Because grown men need to be cheered on like little boys.

Yeah, that’s life. I might be able to get out of the football game by scheduling a remedial class every day of some kind, and that would make me a lot happier. But, basically it’s life for me. I am at the absolute edge of my ability to cope all the time. My nervous system makes being alive torture for me on a regular basis. I don’t get to choose this. It’s just how it is. My parents did this to me. It’s not my fault, but that doesn’t make it magically go away. It doesn’t even make other people understanding about it. They judge me chronically for it. They think I am, perhaps, oversensitive, weak, less competent. True fact. People think that. Here, I hide behind a physical frailty that isn’t entirely real. I can’t say I will lose my cookies totally if I have to do that. I just tell them I am sick. Sometimes I am sick. Sometimes I am not. But nobody wants to see me lose it. So they think I am too high strung, too worried. Well, actually, I just can’t cope with shit. Totally normal shit, like the power tools running all the fucking time around my house. Like the truck that idles for 20 minutes. Totally normal stuff is torture for me. And that’s how it goes. No, they don’t understand it. They aren’t supportive. They don’t want to understand it. I don’t particularly want to explain it. But that’s how it goes. That is life. I do not get to choose any piece of this. I don’t get to choose the truck. I don’t get to choose my trauma-based reaction to it. I don’t get to choose what people think about me for having these vulnerabilities. I don’t get to choose having very little support for it.

Saying that makes me feel better, like some little person inside me has been saying, “I don’t get to choose this.” Yup, you don’t. It sucks.

I should add just as I finished writing this, Art Sir came by my table and gave me coloured chalk. J