Help Me Through The Night

Patrick's Note: Since I took the baton from Deke, I have felt lost, incapable of finding my way through the campfires of downtown homeless, the junkies, ne'er-do-wells, the hard-working earnest souls who board my bus. Likewise, I have struggled with creative impasses threatening my deep philosophical well of get 'er done possibilities. This post delves into the "how's and why's" of it all. Just your reading this  helps me realize that which burns just beneath the surface of daydreams versus reality. Thanks. 

PTSD. Finally realized it is real, inside and constantly gnawing from within. Once upon a time the funny bone would slip in, but somewhere along the past 10,000 miles it broke, and I snapped. Today, every day, I work diligently toward healing the many fractures which have hidden frivolity and healing moments.

Now, I'm back on the route toward recovery. It has taken intense resolve. The internal battles have been fierce. Bloody sometimes. Yet the wounds have not always festered. The sutures are nearly ready to be snipped. Still, some battles remain. Mostly internal, and that's what I tackle in this post.

* * * * *

Writing, somewhere along the line, became a chore rather than fun. It shows up when I finally feel that urge to sit at the computer.

This makes me incredibly sad. No longer do I dream up posts while driving. I might think to myself, "Hmm, that would have made a good blog," rather than "I gotta write about this!" In my 10th year as a bus driver, little surprises me anymore. It's just part of the job, no matter how ridiculous or inane or outrageous. Transit tends to drain the humanity out of one's spirit, no matter how hard you try to control your roll into the ether.

“Dipshidiot”; “Flatter than a sand dollar on diet pills”; "too lazy to masturbate". Gems which once popped into my head here at this abused keyboard, rarely come to me now. Why?

My writing self was born when I heard "The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face," by Roberta Flack. I was but a softly innocent child when this song bombarded me with its powerful combination of talent/soulful fierceness/love awakening. Roberta's rendition of this touching poem opened my eyes to the power of creativity. It was at age 11 I realized my first love was placing words in sequences worthy of captivating any possible audience. It took most of my life to find them. It's the most powerful emotion besides that intense personal love capable of bursting my soul into micro particles searching for some rhythmic purpose.  

It's that dreaded "creative plateau", folks. Lil' bastard slipped past me whilst I wasn't lookin'. Covid dropped a massive melancholy upon this soul. Scared me, it did. Four times it seemed to have me dead in its sights. But no. I dodged the pesky bastard. Still, this horrid pandemic crap is not enough to bowl me over. I've never been a quitter, no matter the odds. My parents instilled within me an incredible will to  persevere through the toughest of any obstacle. It's in my DNA to keep hope alive. Even Joe Walsh, the presidential candidate of my teens, had it right. You struggle right through it all and feel lucky when you realize you made it through to the other side.

Writing has long been my closest companion, besides Beloved. They are forever intwined; my love for one balances the other. As we wind down another decade in this blissful love affair, only the writing suffers. This gives me hope, because Beloved believes my best is yet to come. So, because she believes, the hope remains.

It seems like part of me has gone on some unapproved vacation. My inner self is punishing. Depression, anger, fear and self-loathing have overtaken my once-optimistic/fun side. Perhaps it's the fear of what I cannot control which keeps me from doing what I was born to. My fiercely-held longevity, this mind's deceit of thinking youth is lifelong, is growing alarmingly thin. My face, this gangly body, is wearing down. My weekend ToDo list is often half-checked as I prepare for the next work week. Along with my psyche, the energy level has taken a nosedive the past two years. It scares me, but also makes me promise to do just a bit more next weekend. Throughout the week, I mentally check what needs to be done versus what I can realistically expect this transit-worn body to accomplish. It's a battle between mind and body that keeps me awake until the subconscious shuts down the argument and I finally succumb to my blissful pillow. 

Mom as a teenager.
I wish she were still around
to help me through my self-doubt.

Just the past year, I have noticed a definite change in attitude as I drive a bus. What once bothered me now only evokes a slight chuckle. What mattered most then is not worth more than a shrug or eye roll today. My personal life is parallel to the work grind. Death faces us all, but like my father, I push it further into the future. It's not a lingering dare, but more like a "get the hell outta here, I've work to do yet" feeling. Still, the pragmatic ME reminds the dreamer to get to work before fate steps in where I least expect it. What a bummer to be 2/3 through a novel and just fucking die. I cannot allow that to happen. Mom nags me from her grave to accomplish what she willed me to early and often. If not for her, I would have never walked or succeeded at anything. So if for nobody else, my loftiest of goals must be realized in honor of her gut-wrenching devotion. If not for her... then I would have been gone long before you met me here. 

I sit at this keyboard, listening to the incredible music my soul has heard/felt/lived for six decades, wondering where these fingers will peck next. My book is on hold until the creative force within definitively says, "open file". Then, it will only take another 10 hours or so of daydreaming through the lives of these characters I created four years ago. The villain needs to either die or find a way to survive and laugh at his detractors. The finish line is in sight, just like the high school sports career of my running phenom grandson. Hopefully, he continues his long-legged pursuits. Likewise, I hope his grandfather's creativity makes him proud long after my soul has taken leave of this body.

I want to find the happiness in my daily rolls again. Tired of this nagging fear of what “might” happen on a route, given what has. There’s good people who ride. Their smiles and greetings lift me from the doldrums of a typical day. I should focus more on them. Unfortunately, I'm not so adept at drawing folks out as I once was. Mostly, my goal is to concentrate fully on giving the a safe ride, while their total concentration focuses on that damn phone in their hands. Sometimes, I key up the microphone and try to evoke some positive response. Occasionally it happens, but it's hard to feel. Perhaps a more-than-usual "thank you" out the door catches my notice. One in a thousand will exit with a personal thanks, some acknowledgement of my attempt to make their daily commute memorable. That, folks, is the best feeling I know FromTheDriverSide. Mostly, it's that silent exit after fumbling with an easy door to open that hurts the most.

Driving a bus these days sometimes is like driving a hearse. The passengers silently acknowledging the internet above all life encompassing them, the driver relies on his soul to provide a compromising solace. When the soul is carefree, this is fun. Otherwise, it is intensely lonely.

My prayers are for you all, first. Next, I only ask the Lord for guidance. I'm at a crossroads. I'm apt to choose the road less traveled, as always. And that, I hope as always, will make all the difference.