I could see the road ahead of me. I was poor and I was going to stay poor. But I didn't particularly want money. I didn't know what I wanted. Yes, I did. I wanted someplace to hide out, someplace where one didn't have to do anything. The thought of being something didn't only appall me, it sickened me. The thought of being a lawyer or a councilman or an engineer, anything like that, seemed impossible to me. To get married, to have children, to get trapped in the family structure. To go someplace to work every day and to return. It was impossible. To do things, simple things, to be part of family picnics, Christmas, the 4th of July, Labor Day, Mother's Day...was a man born just to endure those things and then die? I would rather be a dishwasher, return alone to a tiny room and drink myself to sleep."
~ Charles Bukowski
I wish he didn't drink himself to death, but one wonders what degree of trauma Bukowski faced. I'd lay down money that he was at the very least a fellow ACON. In his case, one can see some real toxic behaviors that came out with the alcoholism and more. I always thought Bukowski was an ACON.
Normal life feels impossible to me. I do have thoughts how did I end up an "out-liner"? How did it happen to my husband who once had the title "assistant newspaper editor"? Normal life even for me, seems so far away. There's no family picnics or Mother's Day for me. It makes you wonder. Some of us seem to have the very door of life closed on us. Bukowski kind of more had more choice about it, but the guy was definitely messed up at some early stage. It made for good poetry, but he ended up outside civilization's walls too.