There is no deactivating until you're dead.

Let me just say that I hate getting phone calls from people when I don’t feel like talking. I’m sure I’m not the only one who feels this way. I’m really not a phone person. I mean, I can be, but I’m not. What I hate even more is getting phone calls from men who reach out to me the way a woman I’m in a relationship with would reach out to me. Calling with a sense of urgency. It’s really not urgent. They just want to talk to you when they want to, which is when I don’t want to. Thank God they haven’t created an app that allows people to see you ignore their phone calls. If this existed, no one would call me. There’s something odd about somebody calling you and, if they can’t reach you, calling again, as if the ring will be different and you will answer the second call. I blame technology for that. Technology has made people feel as though there is no reason why they shouldn’t be able to reach you when they want to talk to you. I hate technology for that.

It’s the second attempt at calling that really rubs me the wrong way. I become so annoyed with that second attempt, I won’t answer the call even if I’m in a position to do so. It’s petty, but it’s agitating, and the only way to ease that pain is by not answering the call. I’m completely aware of how childish it is, but I’m still not over my parents separating when I was six. I’m still dealing with that six-year-old self. Sue me. 

I’ve discovered that you can’t disconnect when you have a cellphone. You can’t be alone as long as technology exists. Unless you purposely travel to the middle of nowhere that has no reception.

Long Sidebar

“Before I can even think about writing, I have to address the fact that my apartment feels like I’m sitting in a car with leather seats and all the windows are up. I might add that it’s the beginning of September as I scream out loud, “Dear God, why is it hotter in my fucking apartment than it is outside?”

I honestly need someone to explain how this is even possible. Everything and every place in California seem to be on fire. I’m trying to hide from heat and wildfires in my apartment, and yet my apartment feels like ground zero for the fires.

I took a shower before I started writing so I could cool off, and I’m sweating more now than I was before the shower. It’s so hot that it took 10 minutes for the cold water to even get cold. Never in the history of man has anyone ran the cold water before the shower and said, “Let me make sure this cold water gets cold first.” Can somebody please tell me how the fuck was I sweating while I was taking a shower? 

I think the walls of my apartment are sweating. They aren’t; it is sweat in my eyes. The heat in my apartment is making unsolicited advances towards me the same way guys do to women walking down the street. 
The heat makes me hate shit that doesn’t even deserve to be hated. There’s no reason I should hate hearing children outside enjoying life, but I do. I get so angry when I hear children outside laughing because they don’t know the fucking world is falling apart. I wish I had the ability to be that ignorant. I wish I didn’t know what was going on around me. It’s childish for me to get upset at them, but I don’t care. I’m sitting in my house trying to figure out what state I should move to because I can’t afford to live in California anymore, and children are outside my window, playing hide and go seek. I want to hide. I don’t want anyone to seek for me.

No bullshit, I just sit in my apartment sometimes and try to guess how much of my shit I would have to sell in order to get out of debt and have enough left to move somewhere and start from scratch or just disappear for good. I hate feeling like I can’t say that without someone taking offense. Let me keep it all the way real with you, California is fucking expensive. Back to the blog.”

I need a break sometimes. I wish I could deactivate myself, the way I can deactivate my Facebook account, when I need an excuse for why I can’t be reached. I’m always fucking active. Even when I try to tell people to please give me some time off from being what I am to them so I can recharge, it ends with me being a bad guy. It’s such a Black Mirror thought. However, I would accept some extra grey hair with no problem if I could deactivate for three or four months just to get the fuck away without having to die to get some peace. 

My experiences have always ended poorly when I try to take some time for myself. I wish people didn’t take me needing to detach as a negative thing. I wish people knew that they can be draining on me, regardless if they’re adding value or being a pain in my ass. Too much of anything can be bad for you. People’s emotions can be like radiation. You can become poisoned if you’re exposed to too much. And sometimes I absorb too much radiation without taking a break. I get sick because I don’t have it in me to tell people their emotions are too much for me sometimes. I’ve looked on Amazon, and no one makes or sells emotional HAZMAT suits. I wouldn’t even know how to go about making an emotional HAZMAT suit if I wanted to.

Sidebar 

“I’ve let my hair grow out during the pandemic. I haven’t allowed my hair to grow out since I was in college. It’s really long. Long enough for me to braid it if I wanted to. I’ve kept my hair cut close for the past twenty years to hold onto looking young as long as possible. Looking old is a death sentence in Hollywood. I’m sad to say that this second go around with having long hair is giving me a little anxiety. I don’t completely remember all the day-to-day maintenance of having long hair, but I don’t recall my hair falling out as one of the chores on the list. I get in my head when I see hair in the sink after I treat it, because I’m not sure if it’s normal or if I’m going bald. I blame getting old on the thoughts of going bald. Back to the blog.”

Some people believe in it, others think it’s bullshit, but I’m an empath. Which means I can feel people’s emotions. That’s one of the reasons why I want to deactivate from life about eighty percent of the time. I’m always online, and I hate it. As long as I’m online or available, I will never get a moment's peace, unless I figure out how to guard myself. I feel any and everything. But then I’m quickly forced to put my so-called bitching in perspective and remind myself to be thankful I’m alive. Every time I have this thought, I wait for the character Jigsaw, from the Saw movies, to come out of nowhere and tell me I have to choose, but there’s no right answer. Either way it goes, there’s no peace in being activated or deactivated. I’m going to have to make this HAZMAT suit ASAP. 

-EAT

 I write as a form of healing for myself and others. If you enjoyed what you read, “tip the writer” by donating to Venmo or zelle @maronziovance or Cashapp $Gift2MaronzioVance