Last night, while I was at my mother's house, I updated my resume to the best of my ability. The resume seems weak to me. My mother pointed out to me that I neglected to mention much of the freelance writing that I did a couple years ago after leaving CNN, and it doesn't suggest how often I actually work. She also mentioned that it doesn't even begin to hint at what a good salesman I am or how much I know about movies, books and music. I couldn't figure out a way to turn "knowledge of general trivia" into a printable, marketable job skill.
My mom's supposed to be one of my biggest fans. That's her job. There's nothing I've written that wasn't "genius," even if she found some of it "inappropriate." Everything of mine that she reads, she suggests we "send it to OPRAH" because that Oprah loves "a good, human-interest story."
Arguments against me going on OPRAH are not acceptable at my mom's house. My mom's going to have me on OPRAH before it's all over.
She mentioned OPRAH last night when I showed her the chapters about my disability that I've been working on for my writing class.
As she read the chapters, she said, "Wow, I didn't know you thought this much about your disability. You know, if it's really a problem for you, I'm sure health insurance would pay for some physical therapy."
"Yeah, but what would I write about then?" I asked her.
She laughed, then said I could reference it "from memory."
It's my way. I want to complain about something, but far be it from me to ever actually do anything about it. At this point, I would prefer not to treat my minor limp any differently from the way that I do. It's just that, well, now I write about it, so it becomes fair game for discussion.
When I was carrying in my laundry to my apartment last night, I found my old, suede, snap-shut journal from 2001 in the trunk of my car, and I reread a couple entries from a particularly suicidal period in my depression, including the writings I did about Sept. 11 and the writings I did about losing my friendship with that guy Dax. Also, there were some rocky times with Lupo that I mulled over in the book. And, plus, that was the summer of my runaway car, the year I spent not talking to my parents.
Most of that journal was written after midnight on the formica counters of the Huddle House in Buford. In it, I mention this waitress named Melissa a lot. Now, of course, I wouldn't be able to pick that woman out of a line-up, but she was the one who talked to me the most when I felt like overdosing on pills.
That journal, which is a precursor to this one, I guess, is well-written but pretty damn difficult for me to read. (Of course, last night, I wanted to transcribe the thing into entries here, so people could get a better record of who I was versus who I am. But that probably would be both indulgent and unwise.)
I'm still in the same jobs I was then, technically. But my view is so different.
It's time to take more steps forward.
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