The Body Demotic: Day 7

So yesterday, though nobody would know it to look at me, nobody would know it without going after me with a needle and a fine-toothed comb, was a hard, heartbreaking sort of day.  I’m not dating anyone, though, naturally, I kinda sorta thought I was.  And I kinda sorta am.  Still.  But not really.  I can’t claim the title.  Wouldn’t hold up in court. And that’s as much clarity as anyone can give me on the situation.  Wait it out until you don’t feel like waiting anymore.  Like, what, what does that actually mean?  Care about me until it becomes a problem for you.  What’s it actually require of me?  A woman with broader shoulders and some sense would say, okay, halfway is not enough, we’re just going to hurt ourselves on the sharp edges of this. But I’ve pecked at crumbs and ash my whole life when it comes to affairs of the heart, so this understanding that the porch light is going to be left on for me, always a dish of food and water at the door doesn’t trigger the negative reaction that it should.  Even if it’s clear I’m never getting in the house. I think, well, there’s food here. That’s not nothing.  And nothing ties me down.  I can keep my own devices as it pleases me.  It’s what I wanted, right? It’s everything I’ve ever believed, that’s all.  The best relationships are those conducted entirely by post?

And I thought I took it in stride, accepting the ambiguity of it all, the inevitability of my hope being broken down into a sticky sort of powder, until I realized, about halfway through the evening that I was acting like a teenage maniac.  A stupid, stupid maniac who is going to regret her choices when they spin around and smack her in the face.  Emailing the RP’er like some kind of ridiculous swanning princess who thinks she can set a world down for two years and pick it back up and find it entirely as it was.  That was never going to happen and I knew that.  But still, I was free! I was uncommitted.  I was not on a path towards anything or anyone.  I was officially and am officially single.  Sort of.  Only nothing’s changed.  And it was only ever going to be about me.

I don’t really feel comfortable writing it out, this thing in medias res which might well be speculated upon and swiftly deciphered if anyone were of a mind. I suspect they’re not, but nevertheless, I feel bad enough about it that I want the shame shield to hang up like a Great Wall of China (and not some evil, orange-hued paltry attempt at nothing) between us.  Sit down with me and a cup of coffee, glass of wine, and I’ll tell the rest.  Suffice it to say that it all had to be entirely as it was, but my own good intentions done effed me again.  The world has changed much since all these trains hit the station at the same time, and I am certainly not the soul to demand anything of anyone, certainly not punctuality.

It’s just going to be disappointing is all.  Not evil.  It’s not evil.  Not yet.

Given these truish facts, I am endeavoring to continue on something I know is benefiting me – my small, paltry attempt at getting this body on the same page as my mind.

Supralucid: Day 6

So a thing happened about which I have emotions.   I have been cut loose.  Well.  Not really.  I have been told that the walls around Rappaccini’s garden are not locked. The poison is not so very poisonous.  We are all free to come and go as we please, but ideally, we will just stay right as we are, happy as the pearl in the clam.   Benefitting from the friendship.

I don’t know how I feel save that I know that I feel a bellowing, echoing, stentorian vibration in the deep unknowable fathoms of my soul.  A bit of an how dare you feel so free and easy?  It’s not free and easy for either of us, not in truth, but I suppose what I am sad about…what I am able to reckon with being sad about right now, is that it felt like he felt he could just offer me this gift.  He could just back away from the past two years. like an inconsequential sandwich at a forgettable lunch on some innocuous afternoon. It was just logical.  There was no welling of the soul, no choked back tears, no fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.

Knowing him, as I do now, if I am fair and not speaking out of the pained parts of me, of course there is an intense sadness for him.  But in that moment, the control, the adult demeanor, it’s important to be reasonable and honest and logical and therefore, it’s all up to me to determine the fate of everything was just depressing and frustrating.  What I want is what we will have.  He doesn’t want me to have regrets about it all.  It’s almost a dare…in its way, looking back, it’s this almost bravely, absurdly brazen, request to just knock me off this perch.  To stop being the person of general kindness he’s known me to be and just cast him aside with a HA HA HA.  That’s the frog to swallow.  And if it’s not that, if it’s fine. It’s just fine.   Life is beautiful if I’m not the devil.  Like waiting to take a punch and if I’m the pacifist, well, then, what a strangely perfect tension we get to sit in.

I guess, I guess… I’m proud in that moment for saying hey, of course,  I don’t want to send you flying off the top of the tower to your doom and tell you I’m no longer speaking to you, let’s not be silly, but I do need to know if we meet other people, that’s…that might happen, what does that mean?  And then, he said, well, I would never want to be in the way of your happiness.   So Spockian.  So ordered.  So straightforward and unmoved as if I’d asked him the time of day on a street corner.  I said I don’t…I’m not…it just could happen and I don’t want us to be surprised.  He says, no, if there’s any…prospects, just let me know.  I said there wasn’t.   If there was, I would tell him.   And he should tell me.  And I flashback to the boots through the thin crackling ice sort of heartbreaks I’ve have had in the past – places where I thought I was safe and cared for and special and turned out to just be a placeholder for some other, better person. And then, the subject is forcibly changed.

So I have my answer.  I am free and unrestrained to find somebody here as my therapist believes I want.   Impossible.  I’m terrible and full of panic and weight and shit that never gets off the ground. What do I want?  I understand my own hypocrisy here.  I understand I want to be free while I want him to beg.  Beg? No, just fight for it a bit.  Just offer something to it?  Just fan the embers slightly?  I understand it’s unfair.  I understand we had to have the conversation.  I understand, but I don’t get it at all.

 

The Eke: Day 5

If you don’t do the things you say you’re going to do, there is no reasonable, logical, feasible way for you to end up the places you say you’re going to be.

I need to get a new mattress, because sleeping as I do, laying here as I do causes such a violent and terrible response, one that I am surely experiencing in my teeth as well, that I really lose functionality.  This is my day to get stuff done and I can’t fathom doing anything but laying there just on the softer edge of agony, waiting for something to physically kick me out of bed.  Reading about the state of the world is no great help, you just want to pull up more and more covers to quash all the noise of that.

So somehow, we’ve peeled ourselves out of bed, the bed/iron maiden, long after we ought to have emerged.  We’ve logged the mini-breakfast, but need to pour some water. A small thing, but I can feel myself shying away from it today.  I just want to be still and think my way around the headache rather than taking some aspirin, drinking a cup of the clear stuff and moving.

The haircut will help.  Force me to get up and put something of a face on and be in public.

Shortly, we will need to investigate lunch.  A house lunch, not a wandering out and spending too much on things we don’t know we are eating.  See, the magical mental shifts sometimes happen deep underground.

….

My hair smells like the oil from the pizza.  I ate it, but I ate it ensuring it was allotted and measured and I hardly ate anything else to let me eat it.  And I enjoyed it, so I suppose that’s how this is meant to work.  Still need to get some nutrients in with this method and damn if it wasn’t chock full of the sodium.  Things I would likely never choose to be aware of it was I wasn’t tracking. It should have told me I needed to bring some water with me to the show, but no, I didn’t realize until I got there, and it was BYOB how shitty an idea that was.

The concert was nice – a Sofar show where people are expected to, and largely do, be quiet while the performers are singing.  Got a couple new artists, one in particular who I enjoyed, and I know I enjoyed it because I started crying within ten seconds of her beginning her first song.   Totally like being beaten emotionally raw while I sat under a metal stool surrounded by man-bun sporting hipsters.

I antagonized my sister with my Leftist propaganda.  We took a picture I should hate but I’m too tired to care about it being shared online.  We discussed things and vented about the respective stalled out relationships in our lives.  We didn’t decide anything.  We didn’t do anything but be and for a while that felt pretty okay.

 

The Sapidity of Thou: Day 4

Well, water only gets you so far.  And a weirdo lunch does not always suffice when you’re looking down the wand length at a 5 hour D&D game.  So my thought is at this particular moment, we just go ahead and get something for lunch when I leave here and track it down to the screwiest last calorie.  Just to get myself good and proper full and then we don’t eat post 7.  Sounds doable.  Maybe.  I think there will be stuff floating about to eat, but I am at that stage of fog and clutching, desperate, disorganization where I can’t feel very much control.  So I don’t know.  I’m going to try and go to the store and find something feasible for my purposes.

When you’re hungry like this and distracted by worries and incomplete tasks, it is a huge fight not to let yourself just wild if you can just say it’s only for today.   It is a matter of some small account to realize that I at least kept the leash and kept going.  Paid attention to portion sizes and stopped when I intended to stop.  Even though that meant sitting with lots of barely touched things in bags while I talked to J about anything other than the things we need to talk about.  Mostly D&D.
Naturally, I go to the game and have a grand ol’ time.  There were only three of us. Well, two relatively tender men and then, the wounded, with the brazen, sometimes Falstaffian GM.  And me, oblivious to the arch, comic romantic attentions of some random NPC oarsman, given that fact that some tentacled, flying sorts of fish nearly killed me.
It does go to make me re-realize that so many things we don’t want to do – we kind of do want to do them.  We kind of do want to experience them and we can endure some low-level resistance internally to get there.  Lately, I’ve had to stop asking myself certain questions because I know what the answer will be and the answer will never be anything helpful.  It will be a verbal obstacle to the positive benefits of reality.  Don’t turn there.  Don’t stay here.  Don’t breathe the air around you.  Sometimes, we have to act in our own benefit because the rest of us doesn’t have a clue.
This did, however, make today’s paperwork and diet go a bit awry.   But only a bit.  I still cut the factory off at 7pm, but I did probably go over a bit in an attempt to correct a very strict and austere breakfast and lunch situation.  I wanted to be able to concentrate on the game, to not be offered pizza and be ravenous enough to eat it, and to not freak out about driving there at a weird time with a lot of things on my mind.  So many things I’d forgotten until many hours later that today is my mother’s chemo day.
Tomorrow, tomorrow we see her and complete paperwork.

A Coterie of Whirlygigs: Day 3

So many things going on.  Task upon task upon task.  I used to fear and crave this sort of life.  That my creative self would be broken upon its rocky shores, that my life could be pulled up out of its primordial ooze and spun into an elegant vase by the forces of just being busy.  Being full of purpose and absent of time to worry and suffer and build up anxiety within. Being a vessel void of anxiety seemed always like a good way to be.  Daydreaming of adult life as a girl, I always imagined silver cars up steep hills, making the hairpin turns out of a harried, glittering city, into the mountains, the highest mountain to some massive estate.  Sweeping into a room that overlooked the city skyline, a glass of wine in hand, silver stilettos tossed aside to clatter on the marble floor, I would collapse onto some white chaise longue, or even some simple kitchen table and I’d watch the sun set.  I would, I always imagined, feel safe and secure, fully funded, free, and yet, I always imagined myself entirely alone in those moments.

Here I am, grown-uppish, striving for something better for myself than an unhealthy future or capitulating to the belief that I can’t have anything just because that person driving those switchbacks to that hideaway mansion feels so far away from my hopes and dreams as they are today.  I’m actually counting the old calories.  I’m actually drinking water and not eating late into the evening.  I’m actually doing the things I’m asking of myself.  Weird. Who knows what this means?  Who knows what 365 days of this will bring? But it would be something.  It would be something.

So I am trying on the third day to continue.  Not perfect.  Teeth still irritated as hell and they’re begging for help and the best I can mentally say to them is that there is an appointment and it’s 12 days away and unless there’s blood or things falling outta my head, that’s what it is.  I wish they’d call and let me know, I’d love to not have this impede my fun this weekend and next, but I can only do what I can do.  I am just human.  Sorry, gums.  Sorry, I lived a life of dental fear and immoral and indecent dental behaviors, but I can’t undo it now except by being brave and calling…which I did.

So J.  So that talk that seems ongoing and strained and strange.  I mean, suddenly, there’s a slew of compliments…good ones, meaningful ones that only come from someone who’s actually paid genuine attention to you.  But I’ve haven’t been able to say the parts of this that are the hard parts.  The…thank you, but you need to know that if we don’t move on from the nebulous nature of this…that the pull to figure out how to be with someone here, someone local, is going to just get stronger.  It’s going to just be harder to bear and I don’t want us to suffer through that, suffer worse if it comes as a surprise to either of us when we don’t want to suffer anymore.  Not being able to properly call a thing a thing is its own sort of pain.

When I say “Oh, I don’t know” what I mean is, I know exactly, but it would hurt you so I won’t say it.  That’s a deeply disappointing thought.

No disappointment.  We’re on target. We’re on track.

Campestral

Fascinating how the presence of a single word – a word altogether new to me, a word I can’t recall ever having seen written anywhere before just now – can thrill me and change my mood so entirely that I can’t even imagine naming this post what my first impulse was:  The Drop-Off.  Campestral is much prettier, suddenly I’m painting in mental greens and everything is English and brookside and summery and far away from an icy mountain at which I’m flailing about at its bottom.

Day 2 is always hard after a generally good Day 1.  This is why all these business coaches started writing about what happens after you have a great start or launch in your company.  How do you do more better at the same time maintaining and not slipping from where you were? (These are my references these days, sorry, it’s all Blue Ocean Strategy from this point on.)  All of which is compounded by the fact that this whole rig is piloted by me, a girl, a lady who generally forgets to come in out the rain.  I have so much hopes and energy and sometimes there’s just reach way exceeding grasp.  Doesn’t mean it’s not a good idea or a good plan.  I just need a breath to make sure that everything breakable stays on the cart I’m careening around.

I cooked food last night that was good.  I tracked it and was exorbitantly pleased with myself for my organizing and following the materials I’d put together to help me and check, check, check, day 1 in the can, suddenly, I’m going to be slender.  Not precisely?  But close enough.  Then I wake up this morning with a blistering headache and feeling like I’d been running through fields of molasses all night and I come to the kitchen to collect my perfectly portioned brussel sprouts and delicious butternut squash and parmesan ravioli and fuck me if they aren’t sitting there in their containers waiting to be put away like I promised I would last night.  DAMN, I was pissed.  Well, I was as irritated as I get these days about it.  Day 2! The glorious triumph, crushed.  Then, everything felt pear-shaped and slow and if anyone at work cared where I was or wasn’t, it might have
Still, we do some important things.  I called a new dentist and have an appointment in two weeks and I even went so far as to ask to be put on the waitlist.  Bit irritated that I’d have to feel this shittiness while I’m on vacation, but I needed to do something and as my therapist says, this is hard for you, so it’s great when you find the strength to try.  So, yeah, I’m a bit proud of that.
I also had a challenge today to work on an old story.  Still going to try and pull it out if I can.  Only so much in a day, but I’m feeling far more positive now that I’ve eaten and I’m locked down into not eating again until morning – nothing to prowl for.
I need the time back, to write and read and put away dishes, so off I go, but thank you, day 2, for linking me to the future where I’ve done this.  For pushing me out, safe and secure, into the impossible dream.

Your Favorite Cliche: Day 1

Well, here I am.  Day one of 2019.  Locked and loaded.  Imperfect in my plans and desires but missing you all dreadfully.  Every one of you my favorite voice in the Void.  Me not writing last year had reasons, I suppose, but none of them ever seemed very reasonable.  I just didn’t want to deal and I see now, the results of not dealing.  You gain weight.  You stress out.  You lose hair.  Your gums ache.  Your heart is powdered.  You exist but only on the terms of the unforgiving universe.

I would like to think we can do better than that.

So here at the start of the year, I’m not afraid of a useless five hundred a day.  I’m not afraid of repetitive posts, of a whining, broken record telling me the same hopes and draining me of the same fears three hundred and sixty-five times in a row.  Because somewhere in all of my nonsense, there are granules of the good stuff.  Clarity and freedom and mental security where I know what I want because it’s on virtual paper.

I have grand plans for 2019 and I’m not afraid of that, either.  I’m not afraid of the piping, shrill, nasal inner voice that indicates “She always has plans! And all of them go to shit!”  Sure, dear critic, I have plans and want things, things that my circumstances do not warrant, things I am not trained or prepared for, things that I don’t have any way of getting – especially, when I refuse to acknowledge that I want them.  I’m human.  It’s okay.

And I’ve done work in 2018 to clear some paths.  I’m in therapy again.  I’ve got every kind of tracker imaginable and I’m joining boards and teams and taking before shots and measuring myself the way it’s suggested so I have that baseline.  I’m not making any decisions on doing low-carb until after my birthday.  I’m going to try and practice careful tracking and exercise and loosely reducing sugar and starch in the meantime, but I know that I am going to hit those dates and judge myself based on my behavior and I want to give myself the best chance I have.   My friends are coming in a few days – 10 days – and I care more about figuring out some supportive habits that I can keep going through that than showing everyone I can be perfect.  When nobody knows what I think perfect is anyway, nobody cares in that regard at all.  I have what I need to do mapped out.  I have things beyond just dieting and exercise that are important to me to get back into and they’re a part of this movement forward.  I am here.  I will be here, writing my shit out instead of leaving it somewhere lost in a fog in my brain.

J.  Well, there, at least I can say that I am growing myself up.  We had an adult conversation that didn’t go superlatively well.   I cried a lot. He said I was wonderful, marvelous, all the things any girl would like to hear.  But wouldn’t commit to the fact that we’re single, only to say that he is not in any position to meet anyone.  He doesn’t want things to change.  I don’t want things to change, but I know that they have to – I know that I have to have his understanding that I need a person in my life who is here.  The therapist kept reiterating that’s what I need and at first, I felt frustrated, thinking that was something she thought I needed.  But I can’t live a thousand years on a string.  I’ve lived so long that way and it’s what I know, but it isn’t fair.  It isn’t enough.

So that’s going to be a place where work has to be done.

But not today.  Not everything today.  Today is showing up.  Cheering myself for showing up instead of being down and dire about another restart.  Let’s have a lifetime of restarts and caring for myself enough to give a shit about not letting myself go to shit.  Let’s have a lifetime of being a dork about it.  Let’s be cliches, baby!