Control: Unevents

I am beginning to remember weeks ago. I don’t care about the world around me very much. I am schizophrenic, sick, and can’t pay attention to the world around me, but that is beginning to change. I am more able to finish conversations and communicate with people. I am more able to remember week in and week out my daily life. I know that I have blogged every day for about a week and that I have made progress at a novel and a short story. I can’t always remember what I did last week. I, Dalton Lewis, author of the several copy-selling book Lovers Gone, don’t remember exact details of last week, the week before, or the week before that. This disturbs me. As I grow older the days merge together: talking on the phone with Gilbert, hanging with 40k friends and putting together toy soldiers and painting them. There’s other stuff, too: hanging with parents and having family dinners. My mom sits opposite me, with my dad to my left, and we always have some kind of healthy vegetable in addition to the normal food.

I also go to movies. I attend every superhero and action movie and whichever dramas seem interesting, and I try to make it to all the teen movies, too. I have many problems in my life. I am also lonely.

I call my friends and talk to them on the phone most nights. I don’t know why; I just feel unfulfilled if I haven’t talked to them. I don’t dare consider romancing a girl. I don’t have any money or job or security. I’m fat. I’m living with my parents. I don’t think that I have enough game to date anyone at this point. I am a good person who tries to care, but what does that get me in the dating world? Nada. Zilch. Zero.

I want beautiful women. I gaze at women and wonder why I don’t communicate well with them. I wonder why the stumbled words don’t come together correctly. I get along with my mom and my sister okay, but I don’t know anyone else in my life every day who is a female. That’s sad, right? I think it is sad.

I am in a mid-life crisis. I am thirty-nine years of age. I need to get some writing done, now. I need to succeed at life, now. I need to seize the day, now. I need all that and more. I don’t think that it will happen, but I need to try. The effort to be a good person matters to me. I have control: I can resist all the dirty urges and impulses that a man feels and wants. I can control myself to be a good person and be nice and kind to those around me. After all, the worst thing in the world would be to lose myself to crime and hatred and self-loathing and hurting others. As a mentally ill man I feel an obligation to be a good person and not hurt people or stalk people or rape people or kill people. I need to overcome and prove that a mentally ill man — a crazy person — can be a good, productive citizen in today’s America.

Thanks, and take care, friends.