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.

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