Tryalife: Day 49

Worry first about getting something on paper.

So Saturday evening, I lost my guts to my newly purchased twee bathroom trash can six times.  I was a horror story of fluids gone awry.  I was in misery: a quiet, determined, real misery.  It has to have been at least five or more years since the last bout of food poisoning and I’d sort of gone back to the iron gut state of mind so while my desire to eat out was running amok, I didn’t think twice about the rather goopy eggs or the weird butter on the pancakes.  I was turning into an food vacuum that couldn’t be swayed from hoovering up anything so long as it was on a plate that came with a price tag.  And that evening, I got something I suppose I secretly was after:  a hard stop.

My body pulled every emergency break there was.  I’d lay in bed, writhing about in discomfort, wondering if I could just ignore it, and then I would have the deeply ingrained, instinctive thought that…no…I couldn’t.  And away I went for hours on end.  Back and forth.    I woke up and had terrible shivers and fever throughout all of Sunday, my sister even going and buying me a whole first aid kit full of ginger ale and saltines and powerade.  The world got real glassy.  My opinions started to melt into a single hazy space that surrounded me, my thoughts went in there, too.  All that remained were the habits of computing and holding out longer than the pain, keeping the fluids in, the covers up.  But if I thought anything, I kept telling myself I’d just get up and go to work on Monday because that seemed reasonable.

However, today came and I felt weak enough and dumb enough that I arbitrarily called off.  Emailed off.  Whatever it is.   My counterparts emailed me eagerly asking to help, to let me rest.   So I just didn’t go to work today, despite answering emails and doing enough to keep myself from ODing wholly on Dragon Age Let’s Plays and My Cat from Hell episodes on YouTube.

And now, now I’ve done one load of laundry just so I have some clothes to wear and I’ve started the dishwasher.  I’ve eaten a sleeve of saltines and drunk some water and the ginger ale and some powerade.  I really wish I could come back to life.  I kind of feel the fugue state must be broken eventually and I’m a little bit petrified of my actual life and taking back ownership of it so I am floating.  Writing this, I think, is a small step towards breaking the bubble.   I haven’t been doing this and it’s bugging the hell out of me.

I am ready for therapy – which should happen this week.  I am ready for everyone and everything to move an inch in any direction, preferably ahead.  I am ready to take off this flannel and chenille combination and just try a life.

The White Noise Machine: Day 45

I realize now that my D&D character’s story is basically mine.  I didn’t intend this, but I realize it now.

She’s a young sage, driven out of her home, her privileged youth by voices and visions.  She follows the one lead she has and ends up with someone older, tragic, entirely not right for her.  But she stays because this is the first time she’s felt these feelings and she pities him, worries for him, wants to help him.  But she can’t help him, he’s too broken and locked in his pain and for her trouble, he sells her out to a man who wants to take her brain apart and understand her gifts.  She escapes, but she can’t go backwards and all she wants to do is go backwards.

He said…thank you for being a good friend to me.  He actually said that.


I said, with a weighted pause, a pause that surely you would get if you wanted to hear what I was communicating…thank *you* for being a good friend.

What a crock of…

But that’s not true, either.  I’m mad about it.  I’m mad that 2 years down the line, this is the best he can muster, not that I am not grateful for his friendship, his attention and care.  Of course, I know what we said.  I know the painful clarification came down and we are essentially just…passing time with one another.  Not dating.  So it’s not like this is an unfair statement…but it still so totally fucking is.

I am exhausted by the true facts of the case.  I am exhausted by always being just wrong enough to understand why everything is the way it is.  The unending tedium of “getting it” a thousand years running. I am exhausted that I have to dance for scraps.  I am exhausted that his pain just puts everything in stasis and I am exhausted to realize that there is nothing about me that is worth rocking the boat.  I am exhausted that I can’t let go of any of it.  I can’t choose me versus choosing the avoidance of confrontation.  I have no ability to try.

My therapist wants me to, on my own, in my own time, come to the realization – just as my wise friends, my sister…that I have to let it go.  I have to leave it alone.  And I’m trying.  I’m trying to get some air and space.  But it just so happens that all of this is taking place when my mother is ill and I hate myself with an extraordinary passion and my skin is painfully dry and I want to tear it off myself and hit myself with mostly metaphoric hammers and sit in my office being silent and fucking things up and go home and be silent and go to work and be silent and go home and be silent and go to work and be silent because everything else feels like my head in the guillotine.  But maybe that’s where it belongs.




2 Dry 2 Cry: Day 44

I think I might be going through something.  This bridge of time that I fight every year and fail against.  Perhaps I need to just accept that I am always going to be sucked into the undertoad, as it were.  I’m always going to be thrown overboard.  Reach exceeding grasp.

I have a headache.  Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day.  Last night a woman I did not see but heard, kept banging and trying to get into our house until we called the police.  I didn’t fall properly back to sleep until it was far too late. I feel, actually, like hell.  From the carbs, of course, and my usual weird desire to just fuck everything over until it is entirely beyond recognition.

I think my Valentine’s Day present from the guy who is not my boyfriend, but he is – even if he isn’t, and if he isn’t, I definitely don’t want him to be – will be a used D&D book.  This is sweet and good and kind, but I have a headache and actually, writing that out makes me want to set the world on fire.

I have been reading all sorts of travel materials about Porquerolles.  It would make for a great honeymoon spot. Provided you could get your imaginary husband to leave the house.

Everything is garbage and shit and I want it to stop.  I have done no other writing.

So.  Yep.

Complete and Total Meltdown: Day 42

I think, briefly, I capitulated to the great despair.   I am not sure if I am still on my knees before it, but I think, perhaps, I will not be long down.

I gave myself an inch and that inch became a hundred miles.  I feel tired and bad and like a devil just has been awoken from the tranquilizer dart I thought would see me through to safety.

I was thinking about Valentine’s Day and how nicely nebulous the dark space is where my heart is seated in my chest.  I was thinking about my mother and how I don’t like how the chemo seems to be using her in the way you would imagine the cancer would if it had its way.  Exhausting, wizening, enervating.  She’s upbeat, she knows what’s up, but I have to overwrite the story in my head.  I am not seeing her enough so every time feels a bit surprising.  I’m not seeing her because I want to hold everything at status quo in my mind.   I want everything to push forward for me without doing a dang thing, and I want everything to stay steady for her without doing a dang thing.

Meanwhile, at work, we learn about a little boy who has benefited from the things we make.  A bajillion heart defects and issues and surgeries and problems and finally – we do a thing and he is free to be a little boy.    I mean, I don’t do it, but I answer phones for people who make ads for people who do it.   Or something inexactly, but legitimately related.

So I haven’t lost any weight, despite a non-zero effort.  The kitchen’s a nightmare, I don’t want to cook in it.  My car suddenly turned on a low tire pressure sign halfway through the drive this morning, causing an inadvertent panic.  They’re asking me to do things I don’t know how to do.  It’s fine, but I’m unsure.  Tired.  The activation energy over the past few days – I know what I need to do. I just do not do it.

So I ordered a pizza and have sickened myself on it and it’s here next to me and I’m contemplating which is the greater evil – to eat it and swallow the shame of having bought it and blown yet more money on one-off food fixes, or to toss it and blow that money and risk constantly daydreaming about wasted pizza and use that to justify another wave of carb-tasia.

It’s not good.  It’s just not.  I am thinking about how I didn’t even think or care about my goals.  How I didn’t feel qualms about breaking the plan.  How I know how this feels and I know how it feels to string yourself out on guilt aftershocks after the initial binge.  I know and I know that I don’t know if anything is going to be different even though there’s a thousand and one reasons to make this time the time.

Why can’t we make this time the time?

Lazy Arse: Day 41

  • Clear desk  (added some cups to it)
  • 2+ loads of laundry (did 1, half of which is still in the dryer)
  • Make crack slaw (Nope)
  • Prep oncoming week. (Got my email checked and nobody’s murdered or murdering.  Have an idea of what to wear tomorrow.  If I swap out my toothbrush head, maybe we’ll have something.)
  • Read 5+ pages of something good  (what are books?)
  • Start outline for Sela (damnit, no)

I did one load of laundry and wrote    That’s about it.  Ate more of my edge of impossibly bad low-carb meal choices.  Am feeling like a huge failure, in a manageable way.  I mean, I might want to go get Starbucks tomorrow because I’m such a horrible failure.  But I have been running hard and fast and I suppose sometimes this is just how I am going to do.

I think I checked my weight and was not pleased and that probably started the spiral.   Sure.  And J. saying some things.

I am always so sad when I get to the trip and I haven’t done the work.    Gotta get my shit up on this.

Plastic Love: Day 40

I have to turn off the light on the dryer.  As soon as I hit five hundred words, I will do that.

Too many cut corners and you end up not knowing where you are.  So tonight, even though I am tired, and there’s technically only 30 minutes left in the day to do it, I am going to buckle down and write my five hundred words.

I had a good day, actually, dear diary.  I did a few things that mildly improved my lot.  I am thinking about all the books I read about cleaning and organization and the one thing that truly helps me is getting things into containers.  Containers actually do force me to visualize how much of a thing I should have rather than believing I have at least as much air as is in my house to cram random shit in.  No,  I have two bookcases and that is sufficient for the number  of books I need to treasure and own.  The rest can live at the library or online.  I now have dividers for the socks and underthings (sorry internet for informing you I own underthings) and I already feel as though I have so much room.  I am trying to kind of Unfondo?  Sort a combination of my own making of Unfuck Your Habitat and Marie Kondo teachings.  Seeing what makes me feel good and glad to have in about 20 minute bursts.  In my case, I have a lot of things I know I want to get rid of, but what holds me back is the idea that I have to do the whole house at once or in one process.  I will never get to that stage.  Probably ever, ever.   So instead, to whirl around and say, shit, I have 5-6 misshapen and useless sports bras that I dig through every time to find the one I like and still wear, along with a huge armful of tights that have runs in strategic places where you could still wear them if they stayed exactly where they should.  Mostly this never happens, but I keep the tights because you’d have to think about yourself as an inordinate destroyer of tights and an overall bad person were you to grant them to the garbage pile.  I have tried to avoid such determinations, but perhaps, in the end, that is exactly what I am.

The dear cat is very unwell, and back to the vet she went today to get IV’d and have fluids put under her skin because she was refusing to drink or eat.  Now she’s perked up a bit, a very little bit, and her eye is all sorts of gross, but I’m hopeful about that.

I’ve watched a lot of Abroad in Japan, for a bit of culture.  There’s certainly more on offer in every respect, things to do, things to read, things to worry about tomorrow.  I’m feeling positive, generally, mostly because the alternative feels so exhausting and there’s boxes out there to put all your bobby pins in so…stay calm.