The shithole of 2016

As noted in a previous post, I had my arm broken for me. (I didn't break it myself, did I?)

I have so far gotten back somewhere around 85-90 percent of normal function, albeit with a degree of stiffness at times.

And, on Dec. 30, I got fired / downsized / shitcanned / newspapersized from my now-former newspaper.

The last time I was unemployed, in 2009, it was for just over two months and the PTSD-related anxiety started chewing on me.

On the plus side, this time, was having even more money saved up toward the future, having more of an idea of networking, having more options for job searching, and being a bit less fearless / anti-selfish in creating alternate resumes and trying to get them to sparkle more.

On the minus side? Being in a small town well away from cities of real size. The PTSD again. Being of an age where in America, one is subject to age discrimination. (Seen it happen before.)

Well, I landed another job. Still in newspapers. Part of it sounds like a dog returning to its vomit. Part of me, though, knows it's "realistic," at least for today's America. That's even as one sobriety friend whom I friended on Facebook, and need to cut out of start seeing such posts, says people should start practicing more "acceptance" of such, not just psychologically but politically.

And, emotionally? Maybe it took this additional "break," pun intended, but ...

I finally cried tonight (other than for 30 seconds before calling my sis on that day) for the first time since I broke that arm, or rather, had it broken for me. It was while I was watching on You Tube a song excerpt from one of my favorite, poignant, musical movies of all time — "Sunrise, Sunset" from "Fiddler on the Roof."

I had said a while back to sobriety friends, and then social media friends, that I still felt like such a thing was coming on, and needed to be coming on.

It's 2 a.m., and time to wrap this one up, as poignant, introspective Rachmaninov now plays.