I had an appointment at the bank this morning. It didn't go well. I had a number of things I had to get done and it required meeting with one of the bank's so-called "personal bankers."

By now I am used to people I don't know, and even many people I do know, being unnerved by my presence. But the person I met with today was probably one of the most obviously uncomfortable people I have had to deal with in the last three years. I am used to people avoiding eye contact, of addressing whoever I am with instead of me, of taking down to me as if I am incapable of understanding. It comes in different degrees of severity, of course. It doesn't make me angry when it happens, more just sad and confused. But what it boils down to, I realized today, is that most people react to me the way they do out of a basic primeval fear; people have a natural aversion to the fact that I lack the one thing essential for life: breathing. I used to think of it more in terms of people being afraid I would stop breathing in front of them. But it goes beyond that. I think it's not just that people are uncomfortable with me. I think many are actually repulsed.

Not to turn this into a big pity post. It's not meant to be. More it's just me coming to an understanding. I am not saying people are repulsed by me as a person. And I certainly don't think it's a conscious thing. I am convinced that most people don't realize how obviously uncomfortable they are around me. But I think if I asked even some of the people I am closest to, they would say they wouldn't live this way.

When I was in high school I had a summer job one year working for a house painter. Out of all the jobs we did that summer, the memory of one dominates all others. We were painting the home of a class mate of mine. He and his mother were on visiting family in Singapore and his father was having the house painted as a surprise for when they got home. It was a very big job and we were there daily for several weeks. The father left for work usually around the time we arrived everyday. The last thing he would do before leaving was to put the family's pet dog into a custom cage in the back yard. The cage was quite large, basically running nearly the length of the yard and had a shaded area. He always had lots of food and water.Certainly a better choice than locking him up in a tiny kennel in the house all day. But the thing that bothered me was the cage wasn't very high, maybe 2 and a half feet if that. The dog--his name was Buddy--would spend the entire day jumping up and down bashing his head against the top of the cage. Or at least until he tired himself out. He would start as soon as the father left and continue to the point of exhaustion. Then, after a period of rest usually lasting about a half hour, he would resume. He never barked or cried. Just continually bounced up and down, smashing his head on the cage. How he didn't injury himself is a myself to me. According to the neighbour's kids who would occasionally come over to stuff dog treats in the cage, the dog had been doing this for years.

The point of this story? I very often think about Buddy because that is how I feel nearly every minute of every day: caged with no way out. People ask me "how are you doing?" I almost always reply "fine." But I'm not. I hate this existance. None of this is revelatory. The person at the bank didn't make me feel this way. Part of me is down because I am not feeling overly positive about people in general these days. Nor am I convinced anymore that there is "a place" for me. Or that trying to stay connected to the world via the internet is a very positive thing. My world grows increasingly smaller day by day it feels. Eventually I think there will be nothing of it left.

I am not entirely sure yet, but I don't know that I am going to continue with this new blog. Maybe it was better just to leave things with the demise of the old one.