I did not celebrate it again.  I did what I always do on holidays - I go to work. On my way home I saw early fireworks in the sky. Family were spending time together, enjoying the holiday. I was thinking of me like I never belong, or I am never a part of something social or family related. I am an introvert with  social anxiety.  It's beyond my comprehension, acceptance and ability. I want to  belong, but when I am trying. It turns out to be so clumsy and awkward, that I am self embarrassed and guilty and disgraced.  I am broken and never fixed. I was lost once and I never found myself again. Self-void. Not sad, just supid. I am Talentless Mrs Ripley. I am a mess I need five lives to fix it.
Writing this short paragraph I've just realized I can't describe in words what I want to say. I simply can't get it out of my head and express myself in words. All the frustration, fears, despair, anxiety, emotional pain stay in my head, inside of me. It slowly corrupts me, like an erosion. I walk with this dark inside of me, pretend to be okay, trying to live my life and do my best. 

I do only half of my capacity but I love to think I do my best.  Reality does not check in. As a result I did not accomplish what I had planned. I was sad for a moment, but I did not have more time for it. So I lied to myself and them. I did not actually lie, I just did not tell them the truth.  There are no victims in my lie.

  My Iron Lungs hurt and I coincidentally watch Dark Season Two. They say I work in the court now, but I am anxious instead of happy. They pay me to feel better, but It was Placebo. I am a perfect patient.  It does not matter, because It was originally about new dishwasher.  Skincare does not work either. I can see the aging. 

But I am still here.

don't watch the news. don't read the news. cruel people dominate the world and create evil, other suffer obediently or watch the injustice helplessly. Power  is expressed in war.

I don't have thoughts in my head; only fears and negative emotions. i react to anything happening around me  like an amoeba to granules of salt - I try to escape. it's not good. right now all i have is consequences of my previous actions and non-actions. I am looking back at 10 years of life. Good morning, Mr Lexapro, How are you? I am good, thanks.

fire ants, high prices, low income, lack of free time, alcohol self treatment, sleep deprivation. there is a place 28.0836° N, 80.6081° W. I like to go every weekend. there is calm, including inner calm.

I've started a new chapter of my life. Not an optimistic beginning. 1 hour in traffic on my way home, grunge radio and could-have-been way of thinking. Life is a shitpie, you just don't know what it's made of until told. It could have been worse if I had not changed it. Maybe It's a rough start and later on I will get accustomed to the taste. I need an eternity to improve my current situation. I need anti-depressants without side effects. I need a healthy wine. I need courage and wisdom.

Николай Губенко родился 17 августа 1941 года в катакомбах Одессы, во время бомбёжки. Отец был военным лётчиком, бортмехаником бомбардировщика ТБ-3. Погиб в бою под Ворошиловградом в 1942 году. До Великой Отечественной войны мать работала главным конструктором Одесского крекинг-завода и была повешена в 1942 году за отказ сотрудничать с немецкими оккупантами. У Николая было три сестры и брат. По окончании войны с 1947 жил и учился в детском доме № 5 в Одессе. Затем был переведён в Суворовское училище с углублённым изучением английского языка, стал играть в театральном кружке. По окончании училища поступил в театральную студию при Доме актёра.

пост составила

Серия сообщений "Памяти...":

Часть 1 - Могилы знаменитых людей
Часть 2 - Жил, чтобы помнили - Леонид Филатов
...
Часть 10 - Они ушли в 2019...
Часть 11 - Ещё одна потеря на Лиру...(((
Часть 12 - Памяти Николая Губенко...

Во славу гениальному сибиряку Василию Макаровичу Шукшину был установлен бронзовый памятник в его родном крае – селе Сростки на Алтае. 

Скульптура на постаменте выполнена русским скульптором, народным художником России Вячеславом Михайловичем Клыковым. Он передал памятник в дар Сросткам – "малой родине" писателя. Архитектор проекта – профессор Академии архитектуры Виктор Васильевич Пасенко.