Elevensies

  • Take it in bullet, pellet, blow dart form.
  • Specifics.  Concrete behaviors.  Rooted actions.
  • I cooked. I ate.  I put my plate in the dishwasher.
  • I let it go.
  • I took a shower.  Washed my hair.   Made it possible for me to go to work in the morning with food to eat there and a snappy outfit.  Snappy is overselling it.  I will be there with clothes on that will not get me fired – my usual bar.  I may, all things going well, paint my nails.
  • I thought about the man who is not my boyfriend.  If I let that go, what does that mean?
  • I got the external fan going on my hot little laptop.
  • I need to read a book and not just a business book for work.  My word well is running dangerously dry.
  • I need to get back into my body even if the body says no. Or yes.  Or needs a stronger mind at the till to direct it one way or another.  Floating around is not all it’s cracked up to be.
  • I need to post.

Sobriquet

Turns out the only way to get out of a long stretch of not writing is to write. There is fodder: a golden-rimmed Schrodinger’s mirror (which is to say that all mirrors are both haunted and not haunted until such point as you can determine, solidly, that it is haunted), the terrors of tile haze, the American Gods episode before the the NEXT American Gods episode which…uffda, and sitting on the comfortable window seat overlooking the atramentous world as it inches towards the dispiriting inevitability of a 6am Monday morning.

There’s been arguments.  Some of which have yet to be resolved.  They will be, well before anyone actually says something that moves the needle in any way.

My mother is no longer biding her tongue, which, were it someone other than her, I suppose I would be endlessly supportive.  Her no longer biding her tongue means telling my younger sister that she’ll never have grandkids and me, I get nothing, nothing save the unending, unspoken omissions that fill the void.  I think she would have said it if she thought it, so for her, it’s already written off.  So I slammed the door.  And she’s sick.  And I shouldn’t have.  But I had to, it was so involuntary, a ballpeen hammer to the one small confrontational bone in my body.

It will be forgotten even if it would be healthier to be the straw for either of our camel’s backs.  My heart is broken, but like all humans, we move at nothing short of cataclysm.

I realize now that the vulnerability I felt at my last therapy session can’t be the reason to never be vulnerable again.  And the driving has to stop the madness.  20 extra minutes out of sheer avoidance.  Is this the sort of thing people take pills to fix?  I feel like it’s just me knowing it fucks me up and I want to not feel fucked up, so I figure out a workaround.  I don’t need help, it’s just my 20 minutes.  It’s just me paying to deal with the shit I create.  It’s not like I could just not create it.  It’s me.  There will be shit, no matter what.

I want to just take the bridge again.  To figure out how to except the freakout.  it just feels so dangerous. I feel physically like all the blood is rushing to my head and my face goes on fire.   That seems like something a doctor could help me with if only I hadn’t also concocted, probably around the time my mother got sick, the most genius gift for myself imaginable.  A blackout, break the Richter scale fear of doctors.  One that I always am 100% certain I could resolve, in the same moment I am 100% sure it won’t be in the next 6 months.  One that has been at that point of tension since it developed.

Maybe more tomorrow on that.  I need to crash and not think. But I started, and maybe we’ll determine I cannot be stopped.

The Conjurer

come back down, come back down into your own head.  stop fluttering around there

As a character in my new passion American Gods is wont to say:  Angry gets things done.

Yesterday, I was an open wound.  I was a scream.  Even if that scream was muffled into a heaven of pillows.  I ask for help and I get a few hours of kindly received help – we’re remodeling the bathroom and there are sighs and comments and things that I can ignore because it’s understandable…my imperfections so cloistered away and they visit and of course, they have opinions.
But it’s on the second day when I haven’t slept due to the help provided resulting in the idea that I need to empty a bucket of water draining in my bathroom at 3am, and with the coffee and sugar and general shit I’ve been eating to stop feeling, when I’m getting shouted about and ordered about and not responding appropriately and then told I am not allowed to be upset, how DARE I be upset.   And everyone just bowed their head at my evisceration.  I must have deserved it in their eyes.
And so I turn into liquid fire and say nothing…except to think of how I can be in such a catbird seat as NO ONE would  DARE say such things to me again.  And the plan, the only thing I can tolerate, is to say nothing at all and do something for myself. However long that takes.

There’s been a lot happening and nothing in the usual way and I haven’t been able to form words for it.  Mostly because of the usual reason:  words mean you believe something.  What I have to say is that for me, for this, the purposes of here and now?  Words do mean something, but it doesn’t have the permanency of stone.  I just need to know what’s rattling around in my skull as I can know it today – not for perpetuity.  I am not a stone.  I am changing all the time.  I will change, irrespective of anyone’s opinions on the how or why of it.  The broken record breaks and the record player plays it anyway.
I went to Seattle and I had a great time and flashes of memory and very tryhard Mexican food, and glorious burgers, and roaming and being amongst my kind, the hills, and the crumpet place, and just rolling down one of the aforementioned hills and finding a Safeway, and dear baby Pancake the wonder Pom and Critical Role running through my veins and lots of moments you only get at a convention:  the sheer randomness of sitting in the massive atrium of the convention center just minding my own panic and watching the homemade R2-D2s beep and bloop at one another.
I need to be back here, but I didn’t realize the impact of a thing I did which is to say I did the right thing for the right reasons and my brain.  I went to therapy and I told what are some of my most secret secrets.  Not of pain, unless, I suppose, we are allowed to think of the aura that shame radiates as a sort of pain and I think…from experience….we should.  A shame that passed and left these great, heaving tunnels through my head and how I sort of mapped them and decorated them and run this curious little trolley up and down between them depending on the weather outside.  I don’t know how or why I did it, but I did.
None of it makes sense.