The Fever

This is not the blog you’re looking for.

Bad day.  Reacted in predictable ways.  Knew I was doing it.  Didn’t care at the time.   Frustrated, ugly and scary emotions.  Tried to reason with them, but they felt bigger than I knew how to cope.  Still stressed about work, not sure how to stop being stressed, not sure if anyone cares.  Know a few people do.   Find that unnerving.

I’m over at my parents’ watching the house while they do various things so that the dog doesn’t whine and make a mess.   It is eerie and quiet just like being in Atlanta on my own, but somehow, worse in that there I had time restrictions and there was not choice to leave the room.  It was vacation, after all.   This is even more liminal.  Even more random and bizarre.  It feels like I’m always on my own.

When I’m on my own, I make questionable choices.  Not only with regard to food, but, in general.  Like writing a message on a postcard with a website address, just a random, keening cry of loneliness out to the universe and then, when I was driving over here, I left it slip out of my fingers into the air.  I fucking littered my anguish.  I expect the street sweepers will be the ones who wrangle my ennui and chuck it into the waste where it belongs, but I hold out this sliver of hope that some man of the right age, right length of beard, right intent would be the one who plucks it from the gutter and finds his curiosity piqued.

We think somehow this means we’re trying.

I looked so cute today, too.  Such a waste.  The dress and this little jacket looked kind of regency and I had my honey bee amber necklace and there was a group out on the patio and they were playing beautiful, Middle-Eastern inspired music and I felt really positive.  I really wish that everything had gone differently.  I really wish that I knew how to fix things even as I watch myself make them worse.  I know this is vague.  I know that you can’t be expected to care about things that don’t mean anything to you.  I know, too, that I can’t produce an explanation.

It’s all bullshit, anyway.  We make our choices.   We pay our prices.  We tell the story we want someone to hear, even if we hope they hear the story underneath it first.

I got tickets for a concert which seems to be one of the few things that motivates me.  What with all these untallied barriers I have against me.  Positive.  Positive.  Go go go.  That’s at the end of October, so I think I will carry on dancing at least until then.

I’m working on my poems, my stories, my beauty, my fear, my faith.  I’m working on not trailing off.  I feel very small and stupid, but I know I’m not.  I know I’m better at least than my worst thoughts.

 

Help

Stats.

Today 154

Started 164.4

Going backwards.

Today I can’t win for losing. Mostly because I’m not losing.  I’m finding a plateau and looking for a ladder back up.

I kind of – no, I do – want to apologize, mostly to myself because I’m the closest one to the keyboard and I like to think that when I write some of this comes from some place of truth.  I am not doing this right now and it SUCKS.  It sucks to fail.  It sucks to watch yourself blowing your intentions off.  Even if I know it comes from an emotional place and a hurt place and a weak place, it’s still having an effect on my physical being.  I don’t like what I’m doing.  And the best, only real advice I’ve heard about what to do when you’re spiraling is to stop yourself.  To cold-cock yourself and use whatever strategy works to take yourself out of the pattern and hold yourself outside of it until you can get yourself under control.

It’s funny, I imagine reading these blogs, it might seem like this is coming out of the blue.  But the pathless journey has gotten really damn pathless and has been for a while.  I am losing the goal, my conception of the goal.  I’ve stopped wanting with a fire in my gut.  I think it’s because I’m dealing with some stuff halfway.  I’ve pulled out a few messy things about being invisible, unwanted, feeling ugly duckling, not being worth this struggle and I’ve gotten a few labels written up, but the excavation is not very deep and I’m feeling the feelings of 1994-2009 a vengeance and I haven’t figured out how to stomach them back down.  So I’m trying to paper over them and numb them and pretend they aren’t there.  Pretend I’m not this overweight, directionless, twenty something with no real romantic prospects and a messy house and a fear of freeway driving and who hasn’t completed any piece of writing in two years or more who can’t let anyone in.

There’s all these reasons why that is, I’m sure that there are.  Things that happened.  Things that if I could write them out and understand them maybe I could wrestle them into a tupperware and go out and lose this weight with a frenzy.  But it doesn’t work like that because I don’t know what these things are or if I do, I don’t trust you with them.  I don’t.  I don’t know you and I don’t want your judgment.  I don’t want to advertise my issues even if I want to be provided perfect help for them.

There’s just this mucky morass and I have to traverse it or stay parked in neutral.

I really hated the fact that I didn’t even fucking exist to him.  Yet again.  And I understand, really clearly now, that it wouldn’t matter what I looked like.  It’s who I am.  This lock that’s on me that can’t let even my imagination run too far amok.  Can’t let me dream too big or I might run off and be somebody else. This limit that is attached to every single thing I do.  Can’t finish a story because it wouldn’t be good enough, anyway.  Can’t fall in love because that person would be the expedient person, not the perfect person.  Can’t clean my house, my room, because it’s never going to look like an Ethan Allen catalog.   There’s always some little detritus in the corner.   Can’t lose this weight because I’m always going to have this inherent ugliness that I can see in my soul.

I believe this so deeply it’s in my bones.  How do you just STOP what runs through your mind, your heart, your bones?  How do you get the butter out of the clockwork?

There aren’t any conclusions again today, but I hate the places I’m stopping to rest.  I want to excise the maybe and say I WILL I CAN I AM IT’S HAPPENING THIS IS THE YEAR OF CHANGE but I don’t want to say things and follow them up with bad acts.

Oh, please let tomorrow be a happy day.  Please.