I’ll Have the Crap Sandwich

With a Side of Panic

Last week was extremely Whac-a-Mole. Two friends died. The ancient plumbing acted up. The HVAC in the community center crapped out. And I discovered that the community refrigerator used by the short-term residents wasn’t working, though it was packed with spoiled food. Then my PTSD got triggered and I had to spend the entire day Saturday in bed, being very still, and trying to use the healthy part of my brain to convince the broken part of my brain that this, too, would pass, even if it didn’t feel that way. It definitely did not feel that way.

When I am overwhelmed like this, my escape fantasies blossom. Most often I imagine myself in a small but well-appointed RV, living a life on the road with my dogs, no physical address, no ongoing commitments, each new day a fresh slate. A refrain fills my mind: “I don’t want to be in charge anymore.”

I have been in charge of my own life for a very long time, since I left home as a teenager. This is how I prefer things. I’m fiercely independent, related, I am certain, to growing up with no independence at all. My theme song has always been You’re Not the Boss of Me. Even if someone did magically appear and offer to be in charge I’d have none of it. 

And yet, as I get older (and older) I can’t avoid the truth that my independence gets chipped away at on the regular. This, I know, is what aging does. My physical limitations grow—hearing, vision, mobility. And while I can still lug around fifty-pound sacks of livestock feed, I know it’s only a matter of time before that changes. 

Rather organically, I see that over the past couple of years I have managed to put into place some things to ease my life as my capacities diminish. Most importantly, I have roommates. This lessens the financial burdens of keeping the ranch going. Also, though I spend the majority of my time at home alone in my room, it’s nice knowing other people are around. Of my roommates, one is a young man my son’s age who trades work for rent, allowing me to off-load some of the never ending chores and to feel the comfort of a youthful presence.

I read articles about Gen X and how we forgot to save for retirement. I read about trends suggesting lots of us are not in traditional relationships—i.e. we have no partner to rely on as the threat of infirmity looms increasingly larger. I also read about soaring housing costs, prices that swell exponentially if one is considering a senior living community. 

One way or another, this ranch is my retirement plan. The place came into my life through an absolutely wild stroke of good fortune. If I sell it, I should be able to live in modest comfort for a good stretch. If I keep it, I could turn it into a wacky hippie Gen X compound, which it kind of already is, generating income and fostering community. 

There’s a lot to like about the latter plan. I could continue living in nature, keeping livestock, and being part of something positive. Potential drawbacks also abound. All you need is to let one asshole fake their way through the vetting process and the whole community suffers. This I know from experience. 

I have no need to make any major decisions today, for which I am very grateful. Fucked plumbing and HVAC and this temporary mental storm notwithstanding, things are actually going quite well. I’ve got plenty of good work that I love and which pays well. I have friends who would help me in an instant, should I convince myself that asking for help is a perfectly fine thing to do. And, knock on wood, it’s been a good stretch since there’s been an animal health crisis. 

Still, when the PTSD kicks in, the glass goes from being half-full to shattered.  Unnecessary, unhelpful and totally unbidden worrying kicks in full-force. In these moments I disappear off into the horizon in my dog-filled RV and, because this vision is pure fantasy, running away solves everything. 

But I can’t run away. For starters, the HVAC guy is going to be here any second to likely drain away all the incremental financial progress I’ve made in the past year. And while I do have an assortment of campers, the two roadworthy ones are currently occupied by other people who also never got around to making a long term plan. 

So I sit and I wait for things to settle down. In rote fashion I recite to myself all the other times shit fell apart and then, eventually, came back together. This recitation reminds me of the habit of affirmations I got into many years ago when things actually did seem like they’d never right themselves. Telling myself day after day that I was good and worthy and would be fine felt incredibly stupid, self-indulgent and borderline narcissistic. The only initial benefit was that, as I forced myself to look in the mirror and give myself these pep talks, I would laugh at how foolish this felt and so at least I got a little dopamine hit from life’s best medicine. 

Eventually the affirmations worked. I grew less down on myself. I never tipped over into hubris, not even close. I had a more realistic perspective, an understanding that if I could not completely talk myself out of being depressed, I could convince myself things would improve. And they did. 

It’s been a long time since I chatted with myself in the mirror but I never let go of the practice of self-reassurance. The big truth in my life has always been that I have gotten through the storms. This getting through has not always involved grace or elegance but still, I have again and again arrived on the other side of panic intact. And so I know I will get through this current crap cluster, hopefully sooner rather than later. 

I’m curious—where are you at in all of this? Do you have a plan for your winter days? Did you save for retirement? Do you panic? How do you manage the panic? And please, do tell, when you are overwhelmed, what’s your escape fantasy? 

NOTES:

Thanks for subscribing y’all. If you can fit it in your budget to subscribe for $5 per month or $50 per year, I hope you’ll consider it. You might prefer to subscribe to my other substack, WriteWithSpike.substack.com, a sort of online writing workshop. If doling out dough isn’t your thing, you can still help by sharing this substack with someone you think will dig it. One-time tips also gratefully accepted via Venmo: @spike-gillespie. 

My next FREE in-person writing workshop at Hampton Branch Library in Austin is WEDNESDAY, 3/6, from 5:30-7:30 pm. It helps us if you REGISTER.

My next six-week in-person Memoir Writing Workshop for Women starts Tuesday, 2/27. Held at the ranch from 11 am - 1 pm. $150. Email me for more details. 

I volunteer with the Central Presbyterian Church helping the homeless. We always need adult clothes, shoes, bedding, toiletries, etc. If you live in Austin and have stuff you’d like to donate, please let me know. I can do pick up.

Thanks for reading, y’all. I really appreciate it.

Love,

Uncle Spike