6 min readJun 3, 2024


Wallowing in the failure of myself.

Over a month has passed since preparations for The Garage Sale began. It was a mad dash to pick through anything else not already up online in a digital yard sale, add it to the pile, and start pricing everything physically. Somehow, it never ended. Every day became washing two loads of clothing, drying, folding (poorly), and placing items into a bin ready to bring over. Postpone the sale, the weather is bad. Postpone the sale, the weather is still bad. Postpone the sale, this week’s bad too. Do the sale…no one is out, and tomorrow the weather is bad, so we postpone again.

This increase in time allows for returning to the pits of digging through things, the intense sensation of needing to continue to shuffle items about and find what needs to go. Tomorrow looks at (at least) two more loads of laundry. Acquisition of a bin, folding, filling the bin. Grabbing the next bin. Causing problems as these had their own purpose.

I estimate about $400. It’s so utterly not worth the effort, although the peace of mind of having less stuff is priceless, so maybe it is. It feels pointless.

I find myself in the position of many of my peers, except by comparison, they are further along than I am. They have potential and prospects. I have nothing. This is mostly my own failing, although there’s probably some contemplation of the end-stage capitalism and uselessness of attempts in a rigged system in there. Internally, the dialogue is my own failing.

Exhausting myself has been useful in the ongoing fight against my anxiety, but cycles and reality put me in a particularly dark place mentally, bringing up every bit of depression that sits and waits for its moment. Its moment has arrived.

Going through the clothing was less of an issue than I expected it to be. It’s Grandma’s clothing. She had tons and tons of it, and so very little of it reminds me of her, with exception of the apparel she wore near the end. I’ve set aside a few pieces that either just need to go at some point, or that I can use to sew something stupid together with. No, the real issue came when digging through the drawers of all sorts of other things, including an entire grocery bag worth of receipts. Picking things out, finding pictures, notes from people, it was very difficult.

Then I found the recorder.

I don’t know what was on the tape, but the batteries looked good. I hit play, just to see what would happen. “Testing 1 2 3, testing 1 2 3,” Grandma’s voice said. It broke me, an entire truck of grief striking me in her room. Hearing someone who is gone. It may be a blessing, but in that moment it was entirely too difficult. The only other moment coming close was finding a picture of her and Grandpa, I assume on their wedding day — at least, they were dressed up nicely. They’re both gone, and that is hard.

I am down to one grandparent. Many may not be so blessed to have known their grandparents into their adult years, but the people in my family were young. And young… means they were all taken too soon.

Life is fleeting, and ultimately it seems pointless. While there is some comfort in this in the cosmic sense — we’re all dust, here for but a mere moment in time, and we return to dust as fast as we appear — for a lifetime, it is devastating. There’s an incredible urge to Do Something, to be something, someone, be memorialized, be remembered. Create a legacy. And then for some, we have very few people show up to her visitation. Distant family that will disappear into the void, or the direct remainders. I will be there some day, and I will be as worthless then as I am now.

Just don’t put a fucking bra on my corpse.

It was after the height of activity on Friday, after my heart rate was elevated for two hours and I had to lay down in the grass under a tree, waiting for the shells of the cicadas to drop on me, on my way home, when it hit me.

I’m lonely.

I passed a strip club. All I could think was that if I could afford it, I’d shoot for a private space and ask whoever went with me to just sit with me for a bit. We don’t have to talk, and I’d probably just like a soda, but I just want to sit. For a moment, have company. Then pay for whatever that amount of time costs.

It all wraps back around to not having money though. So many problems would be fixed if I wasn’t on a 12k/year budget. I would probably still feel worthless, but some of my anxiety would be quelled. I could afford to travel a little further, visit family. Be a little less alone for a minute. I could afford some public thing where maybe there are people to interact with.

I’m not sure I need to be in a relationship. I’m not sure that fits into what I have right now, and it’s so important to consider whether a relationship is a drain in any fashion, or if it’s supplemental. Then add in finding someone who feels the same way. Someone who is understanding that things need to go slowly, and if the vibe just isn’t there, it’s not worth being uncomfortable in. It is a great deal of effort and I am not sure that fits into my life when I am on such unstable ground. I don’t expect a relationship to be effortless, of course. Compromise, work, there are things that are required to make it happen. I am just not in shape enough to do any of that.

I have poured into my relationships far more than I have received, and I am tired.

I got lost. This road goes south far enough to get me back home, but the time it would take would be exceptional. I took a detour, and ended up in a place that left me feeling creepy. Passed a street with the name one of your homes was on, although at this point it was not intentional — I was just going to this grocery store so I could get something to drink, a bag of Bugles, and a parking lot to scour Maps and determine how to get home from there.

Many paths, this road leads to another road I recognize, which leads to other roads I recognize, and a wrong turn again. I wouldn’t end up on the road I wanted to end up on, at least facing the right direction, and felt rather sick about overshooting my enthusiasm and ending up on the wrong street. The wrong highway.

It was on Lemont, finally, when the existential dread hit me.

I have no value. I provide no value. I am a blip on a radar that manifests as nothing but wind for a moment. Maybe you enjoyed the breeze, but it is gone now. I have no skills to obtain value, or rather the skills I have do not measure up to much of anything generally. I am lonely, and not on a sturdy enough foundation with myself to be relationship material. Moreover, I don’t see how life would change in any way that I prefer while in a relationship. What would that future look like? I am comfortable living in a house with family — although I have no option except to be this way, as we round back to the financial nonsense. I feel I am a burden, that I am worthless, and that my life is pointless.

I compare myself to you. Successful in life, in a career, with a family. You have a legacy in every regard. I am nothing, and I have nothing.

And it is all my fault.

My unchecked mental health issues, no useless degree under my belt, no useless job to go with the useless degree. An alternative lifestyle that makes me unsuitable to join the regular world, or find regular people to exist with. Just Be Normal. It is too far away.

All I can do at 22:21 is to resume the picking and packing of things. Clean up the mess I’ve made. Make an effort to take care of myself, and my animals, and continue on the path of trying to make another month work.

And it feels so completely, absolutely pointless.




Someone told me I was a good writer. I'm not, so this is a blog. Tend to one’s own flame, and do not extinguish the flames of others.