#%#$@!!@&**&^%$$#@! Birthday

I hate my fucking birthday.

It's not because I had a bad one this year - it was quite nice, as birthdays go (despite my distinct non-winning of the lottery). I happily began tidying my sewing room and started the big freezer defrosting, and went out for dinner to a local hot dog joint that has the best chili-cheese fries for clogging one's arteries on the planet.

No, I hate my fucking birthday because of ghosts and shades of birthdays past.

When I was quite young, I'm sure there were cakes and parties. I vaguely remember one birthday spent at Burger Chef, my favorite dining establishment as a child. See a pattern, here?

But somewhere around the time I hit double digits, birthdays became something of a...meh.

I saw other kids having parties, but I didn't have them. Other kids had family and friends to celebrate with them...I usually spent the day alone, perhaps the recipient of a half-hearted wish for a happy birthday from someone who felt obliged if I happened to mention it was my natal day. I started thinking I didn't like my fucking birthday.

I got tired of begging people to notice or care, so I was quick to quit mentioning it. I was almost certain I didn't care for my fucking birthday.

I watched other kids get gifts and phone calls and visits from family when I was in boarding school, but again, I spent most of my so-called "special day" largely unnoticed, although my mother did try to make sure she called and sent a gift, and that meant a lot to me...but at that age (early teens), one wished one's peers might give a damn. I didn't even harbor a tiny hope that my father would make an appearance of any sort. Or my grandmother would orchestrate a birthday fiasco that was basically a bribe to the other kids to be nice to me for a day so they'd get dinner out and cake.

I firmed up my notion that I hate my fucking birthday.

I spent my high school years without so much as a ruffle on the "happy birthday" waters, and that was fine. I couldn't be bothered to care that I was alive, why the Hell should anyone else.

In my early twenties, I was part of a large social group that sometimes made a fuss over birthdays and sometimes didn't...but I always felt loved. Still...I hated my fucking birthday out of habit.

Mid-twenties, my birthday became a death day, too - a beloved friend and member of my social group died on that day and I was once again firmly entrenched in the idea that my birthday fucking sucks, and I hate it.

Now in my...never mind what age...I'm still not convinced that it's worth the bother. Oh, don't get me wrong...there are people who love me very much who make sure to tell me so (and not JUST on my birthday) and who make an effort to let me know that they're glad I was born. I know I'm loved.

But I'm still that kid who kept getting the message that she didn't matter to anyone, wasn't worth the effort, time, or care. As an adult, I can't shake that old hurt. I also, in recent years, can't help but think I've wasted my life, that I'm wandering through the years in a daze doing nothing of worth...and that maybe it's to late.

So I still hate my fucking birthday and am just as happy to get past it and on with the next downhill slide to aging gracelessly.

The Art of Him

Oh, how I love him.


I'm going to photograph him...his lines, curves, dips, shadows, planes, in black and white, in sepia, I'm going to map his body inches at a time.

Long ago, people made maps by exploring territory.

I like that idea.

Sometimes, it's overwhelming, this love. It's huge, and old, and new, and comfortable and frightening. It's a challenge, and a blessing, and as easy and natural as breathing.

I love this beautiful man.

Beauty...more than skin deep, his, and complex, and fine. I wish I could paint him...paint his likeness with oils, acrylics, watercolors. The oils and acrylics for the bold, the strong, the powerful, the anger and the love and the smile and the intelligence...but the watercolors for the soft, the shades, the subtleties.

Or to sculpt...but how would I sculpt what isn't seen? Clay or stone...they can't capture the nuances of personality that I see, that add to this love, layer upon layer...

The soft voice when he speaks to the cats, coaxing them to come take a treat from him or accept a gentle stroke from his warm hand...music...there is no instrument with which I could convey the tones...and it goes right through me, melts the frozen places, transforms my stone or leaden heart onto a warm and beating thing, fluttering in my chest.

Dear Goddess, if a person of words finds it indescribable...

I'm at a loss.

I think...I cloud fill a museum...and still never quite convey what a marvel I find him...

There is no art so fine as the original.

About the Light

You think the words are gone? That you took them away, sent them away, frightened them away?

No.

About that light...the one on the ceiling...

It reminded me of you, Sir. The flame swayed and the shadows danced, but the light itself didn't falter or fail. In the small hours, as you spoke and spoke and poured yourself out and drew yourself back in, I stared at the candle before me, at the pattern of circles and lines of light that made a sun on the ceiling. I was cold, Sir...

And you were this great, blazing thing. I felt as insignificant as a mote of dust caught up in the wind, made bold to try and gather some of your warmth into my frozen core...and stared at the light, alone.

It was a sun, yes, but also an eye...golden, wide pupiled, hypnotic, it stared back at me as I tried to find my way into its center. I was a shadow, and I was listening from my corner. I heard the hard edges of your words when you spoke to yourself, and how you softened when the little cat Tiger caught you attention, and I wished I could bring that softness, that gentleness, to you and I wished I could get lost in the center of that light, immolated, turned to ash, remade. I wished that I could be lost in your eyes, Sir...

And while you were in one place, within your own darkness and struggle and rage...I was in another. Lost in my world, I couldn't reach yours, so I kept my distance and stared into the light.

That light.

The candle lit to help guide you to where you needed to be. The flame kept alive for months. I watched it move, listened as you paced, felt myself fall farther and farther away...held in place at last by nothing more than that small, tenacious light.

What to Show

I woke up this morning and felt the crash coming.

Look - I don't know how to do happy.

So...weeks upon weeks of roller-coaster ups and down, culminating in one big rejoicing...there was going to be a crash. It's nothing personal. It's just me, being me.

I woke up worried about things that are mine to worry about, and feeling this sticky blob of shadowy stuff trying to envelope me, envelope my psyche. I need a cry. A good one, the kind that leaves my eyes red, my face sticky and wet, my nose stuffed and running...one of those emptying, unattractive cries that should never be witnessed by loved ones lest they be forever branded by the horrible sight.

I feel...useless. I feel...pointless. I feel...like a drain. I feel helpless, feel hopeless..and I'm trying not to drag anyone else down with me.

I keep trying to hide it. I'm used to internalizing, to denying anything's amiss. It's easier, really. Again, it's nothing personal - I love the people in my life - but if I don't want to deal with this crap, why should I expect anyone else to?

Trouble is...that's not fair. Not fair to me, not fair to the ones I love. They have a right to know I'm not happy...don't they? Or...do they? Is it a privilege or a burden?

I don't want anyone to be weighted down. And I don't want anyone to be hurt. And I don't want anyone to think I'm shutting them out. Conundrum.

What to do...

What to show...

Swarms

I woke up this morning with words swirling through my mind. Words, thoughts, about my life, my timeline. This post isn't made up of those words, though. More words came along, pressing me with their need to be written. They were nearly scattered when the phone rang, but they were tenacious...and so, I will give them such voice as I can and hope I don't make a complete hash of them.

I am not writing this for you. I am writing it for me. Please understand...and if you cannot understand...if you can see this in one light or another, see it as written from a place of love and compassion, deep and abiding, and not as a judgement or cry for help.
~~~~~
I'm no stranger to fear. I am full to the brim with fears. They swarm at me, a hive of buzzing, stinging little things. Mostly, I ignore them - they are not the sort of fears that nature gives us to aid in survival...look close enough and you will see them dressed in a fool's motley, ridiculous things that are barbed but useless.

So...when I see someone else wrapped in a swarm of their own, I empathize. It's not easy to breath when the little buggers crowd around. It's not easy to see, to find perspective. It's not easy to stand on one's own feet, maintain balance, look to the future. Hell, it's not always possible to look to the future,

I've invited anger into my life.

I'm not afraid of it.

It's not dangerous, this anger. It's not violent. It is words (which can hurt, yes...but only when meant to)(or, if they pain, it is not with intent but more a by-product of the hurt they sprang from) which are not directed anywhere but inward to the source...and outward to such gods as listen.

It's an anger rooted in hurt, in disappointment, in loss. It's fed by the frustration of a soul that has been knocked down every time it stood, so that it is almost afraid to stand again. It's being fed by hope...the hope that this time, when it rises, it won't fall again, which is itself a frightening contemplation.

I'm not afraid of this anger.

I fear its consequences. Not to me. I'm stronger than I appear, stronger than I make myself out to be. But I fear the consequences to the source. Anger of this kind...it so often turns inward and gnaws...

I am not afraid of this anger.

Sometimes, though, I am like a whipped cur when the anger raises its head. I cannot look at the source, cannot meet his eyes. I slink away, try not to be seen, make myself small. He won't hurt me...I truly believe he would smash himself to pieces before he hurt me...but the child I was (not the woman I am) remembers other anger, older anger. She wants to assuage, to smooth the way, to fix it, or if she cannot do these things, she wishes to go unnoticed until it passes.

I can't fix it. And I won't hide from it. The only way to deal with it is face on.

I am not afraid of this anger.

But I am not brave.

I have my swarms, buzzing and humming...and I can't always see or hear what I need to do to help. Not to fix. Can't fix. But to help...

Do you know The Healer's Laws?

No?

I'm not surprised. I may be the one person who has them written down in any coherent fashion...

Perhaps I made them up entirely. It has been known to happen.

The first law - you cannot heal others unless you yourself are whole. That doesn't mean one must be perfect...it's complicated...but if a body, a mind, is so imbalanced that it's lost within itself...well, it's not very useful for helping others, is it?

The second law - you must wait for them to ask. You can't just wander around fixing people without their permission, without their knowledge. They have to know they are hurting, have to want help, have to ask for it. It's part of the process. Until someone asks...their hurt is their own, and what right has anyone to take that away? You can offer...but you can't just thrust your will onto them.

The third law - sometimes, you have to fail.

There are more. I won't bore you with them.

What has this to do with anything?

I am not afraid of this anger.

My instinct is to sooth, to repair. Last night, I had to remind myself of the second law. I had to be firm with myself...until I couldn't bear it any more, went to the source, and damn near begged to be asked.

I'm sorry.

I had no right.

But my little swarms, my little clouds...they clouded my judgement, and I can only hope I did more good than harm in thrusting my hand past them, past the anger, to reach for the soul choking on its own clouds, its own swarms.

Shadows, Light

Early in the morning, the light filters through our curtains into the quiet room. I am awake, pulled from slumber by a presence...something has changed.

I don't usually wake slowly, but go from sleep to aware in a matter of moments.

Eyes open, I see the difference beside me, wrapped in sheets, blanket, comforter, grey morning light...

Someone.

Someone is here. Here with me.

He brought relatively little by way of the material world...but he fills this house with himself.

The house approves.

The boy approves.

I? Oh, yes...I approve...

I lean up on an elbow and am tempted...sorely tempted...

...to touch...to smooth my fingers lightly over his face, touch his lips, dip them in the hollow of his collar bone where shadows have come to rest with sighs of content. They drift, mingling with the dawn on his smooth, soft skin...

...to run my palm down his arm, feel the play of muscle, strong even at rest...

...to tease the scattering of hairs on his chest, wiry shafts tickling my face when I cuddle close.

Goddess, how I love to touch him...just to feel him there, radiating heat, vitality, Spirit...

And how I love to see him sleeping there, where it feels so right to have him...to see the shadows and shades molding to him, creating landscapes of chiaroscuro on him...to see them shift and change as he moves, opens his eyes, and light of a different sort fills the room.

A Simple Prayer

Dear Goddess...please...don't let the darkness be too much.

Still Here

I'm still here. So are the shadows. They don't go away. Not without serious medicating, not an option for me.

I'm in an odd state.

I worry. There's a great joy happening here, in the cold, dark, isolated place that is my heart. A great good thing. Not my best good thing - that's my son. He knows it, too, because I tell him he's my best good thing. Something...someone...else has taken up residence, taken root, and seems to be flourishing.

But I worry. I can't recall if I've written this before, but...I don't really know how to do happy...how to be happy. It's...alien. I know sorrow. I know hurt. I know depressed. I know rejection.

I don't know what to do with love. Not the love of a child or parent - the love of an equal. The love of someone who has no reason to love, no familial bond, no obligation. Wow. That's...that's huge. And awfully sweet. Sweetness. Awesome...

And I worry, because I don't know how to just be happy. Don't get me wrong - I revel in each moment, wallow in it, soak it in, savor it. But in the background is the voice telling me I'll screw it up, something will go wrong, I'll go wrong...

It worries me. What have I done to deserve this great good thing?

I worry...not that I doubt him in some way, because oddly I don't. I say oddly because I doubt everyone. It's part of the sickness. I doubt my mother, and my dear friends, and everyone...but not him. This is odd. I doubt myself most of all though, and that's what worries me. What if I am not enough or too much?

Mark Twain said everyone is a moon and has a dark side which he never shows anyone. Not entirely true. I show my darkness, here and in my life. I trust a few people enough to let them see.. He sees. So why am I worried? Because it's unrelenting, this darkness, and what if he comes to realize he wants no more of it...and I can't just put it away, you know? Can't just stuff it in a pocket or in the back of the closet and pretend it's not there. Even if I am too much or not enough, I have to be myself, honestly, openly, entirely me.

Which is worrisome. I don't often like me very much...so how can anyone else?? As for love...whew...let's not go there right now...not love for self, anyway. I don't know if I have it in me...

Still...there is this great joy, and I smile so much my face hurts, and even the fear can't make that go away. People notice, and remark, and tease, and it's fine, it's good. The shadows niggle at me, but they're no match for this great good thing...so they're looming in more ordinary ways, more manageable ways, until they can find an opening and tear me down, claw at me, rend...

Meanwhile, I'm still here, still muddling, still rising and falling, riding it out.

Still rambling aimlessly, pointlessly, endlessly...still here...

More or Less

There are times, love
When I feel I am not enough
Or perhaps too much
But never quite right

And

There are times, love
When I feel I am more than
Or perhaps less than
Myself

In equal measure
~~~~~

you bring this out in me
this sense
of being more
of being less

more than I have been in the past
in a better sense
more than the definition I've accepted
for so long
of not enough
you make me more

less than I have been in the past
in a better sense
less than the limitations I've accepted
for so long
on what I could be
you make me less
~~~~~

I can't begin to capture it, love
Lover
Beloved

Can't begin to
say
sing
paint
dance
write
express

How much more there is,
Since you came along,
And how much less

More moon
More sun
More stars
More wonder
More laughter
More fear

Less sorrow
Less hurt
Less darkness
Less silence
Less isolation
Less fear

More or less, love
Lover
Beloved
I am better off

And can only hope

I may repay the favor.

In the Rain

the night was unkind

and dreams

scattered their sharp fragments

to the far corners of my mind

and I woke to grey, chill

wet

and lingering feelings

dream-borne

so

I went out

into the rain

just out

to be in it

for a little while

in the rain

and the silence

that wasn't

silent

in the stillness

that wasn't

still

and oh, the rain fell

soft, soaking drops

like fingers tracing my lines

running along my arms

brushing my face

little tender strokes

light as feathers

kisses falling where they may

they steamed

where they landed

no match

for my internal flame

out in the rain

I felt you

again

for a little while

in the rain

Addict

I'm an addict.

It's true.

I have an addiction.

It started out innocent enough...just a little bit here and there, just for fun now and then.

After a while, though, I wanted more. I started looking for excuses to get it, to get my fix.

Then it wasn't enough to have a little here and there. No, I wanted more, and more often. Every day, in fact.

Pretty soon, it was all I could think of - the next fix. In between times, I was watching the clock, thinking about the next time. It never lasted long enough, and I found myself trying to get it any way I could. I couldn't concentrate on anything but the next hit. Even in the middle of a fix, I would think about how long it would last, and when I could get my next one. When I couldn't get it, I was grumpy, depressed, and unpleasant to be around. I couldn't sleep if I had to go without it.

I had a couple of days where it was 24/7, and it was amazing. Going back to my old use pattern was hard, and it wasn't the same. After a few months, I needed another big score...four days this time, and I had to share, but it was still amazing.

I love my addiction. I have no intention of getting clean from it. From him.

Nope.

He's under my skin, and that's fine with me. Anyway, I'm pretty sure the Betty Ford Center doesn't have anything to cure love. Thank the Gods.

It's a Cold and It's a Broken...

Sometimes, I think I am a curse.

Not cursed. A curse.

No good comes of knowing me. People have perfectly adequate lives until I come along, and then...then things start going wrong.

Sometimes I think I'd be doing the world a favor to hide myself away, keep my poison contained in myself. Every life I touch becomes toxic in some way. I'm helpless to stop it, can't even clean up the mess I can't help but feel I've made.

Sometimes I think I really should just keep myself to myself.

Oddly, I was just speaking to a friend who feels something of the same thing about himself.

Despite how he feels about himself...I feel blessed to know him. In him, I find fortune's gift...in him, I find comfort, and hope. With him I feel loved, cherished, comforted, free, powerful, empowered.

I don't want to be a curse in this man's life.

Just once, dear Goddess...blessed mother...she from whom all life came...just once, could I please, please, be a blessing?



And Sir? If you see this? You didn't cause it. Truly. This? It's my nature.

Sorry

I'm feeling sorry for myself.

I am. I know it's the nature of depression, to feel sorry for myself sometimes. Not all the time, not even most or much of the time...but sometimes. This is one of those times.

I wasn't. Feeling sorry for myself, I mean. I was, in fact, feeling rather good about things earlier today. I tried to help, and I hope succeeded in helping, a friend. I played with my son. Did some laundry and tidied the kitchen a bit. Made lunch.

And then?

I don't know.

Then I started feeling...low. Lonely. Feeling what's always there, just below the surface, waiting until I am unawares to bubble up and remind me that I'm not a happy person, however much I may be smiling lately.

Maybe it started with another blog I read, one that triggered memories of emotional and verbal abuse from my childhood...echoes of a cold, calculating voice telling me I'm not good enough, I'm boring and stupid and fat and weak and no one really wants me, they're just being nice, they're all out to use me and when I'm no longer useful they'll leave me alone again and...shut up, shut up, shut up...

Maybe it started when my son asked if we could order pizza - something he used to have once a week with his father before the divorce, on the one night a week I had a few hours to myself and as part of their special time together - and I had to tell him no, we can't afford it. He was philosophical about it...but it hurt me to tell him no to such a simple request.

Maybe it got worse when I finally admitted I needed a friend to talk to...and then realized there's no one I can (or want to) call. My mother is sick, and I really don't want to bother her. What about this friend? No - out of town for business, doesn't need me bringing her down and anyway, she's probably really busy. How about...? Nope - out of town guests in for the weekend, and two kids...really, she'd take the time but I won't ask. Or there's... No, wait, she hasn't been well, her mother's in and out of the hospital, her roof leaked during the floods last month, and she doesn't need my petty little foolishness added to all that. I could call... No, no I couldn't...because I don't want to trouble someone who's having issues of his own with what amounts to nothing more than memories and mood swings.

I came to the conclusion that I'm the one everyone else knows, KNOWS, they can call. Any time, for any reason, if they need me, they know without question they can call, and I'll answer. And if they need me to, I'll come over and be there for them. I have driven to New York on a moment's notice, because a friend called. I've dropped everything to smuggle a baby chicken into the hospital for a friend (funny story, that, and not at all as weird as it sounds). I've helped bury pets, talked a Vietnam veteran down from nightmares night after night, gotten money to stranded people, driven out to Las Vegas and back to get someone home, cooked and delivered meals to sick or hungry people, given money I couldn't spare to someone who had less, opened my home to someone who would otherwise be homeless, been available to help rescue battered women, ready to drive them to a shelter or a secret house, and always, always, I answer the phone and listen.

But when I think about the people I know and love...I can't think of anyone I want to bother with my irrational tears and feelings of worthlessness. It's not that they say "Don't call" Quite the opposite - they invite me to reach out.

I suck at reaching out. Sometimes, no matter how much I'm hurting, I can't tell anyone...I'm so used to carrying it within me, silent...but if only someone would notice, would ask, would tell me they KNOW something's wrong and then wait...sometimes then, I can find a way...

Sometimes, too, I feel like it's an intrusion on their lives, despite their words. It's so easy to SAY "If you need me, you can call any time." Much harder to understand what that means and maintain the sentiment. People have jobs. They have families and lives and things that have meaning to them...and really, I just don't figure I'm one of them. Well...not like that, anyway...not in a boring, needy, depressed now and always sort of way.

So I'm feeling sorry for myself, and lonely, and alone, and I can't do anything about it because I'm bound up in my own misery and trying very hard not to let it impact my son, and...sigh...

Sigh...

Necessary Roughness

I'm having an unpleasant day. I'd call it bad, but I can't stir myself to be that invested in it.

For some reason I have not yet quantified, I am not sleeping much or well...and for the last few nights, I have quietly wept myself to sleep. It's a nebulous thing, indefinable...a mid-grade unhappiness...combined with an overwhelming lonliness that's kept at bay during busy daylight hours, but late at night feels free to roam the gardens of my mind, planting the seeds of its strangler vine where it will...

Yesterday, my son got into an ant pile. He washed the ants off his feet with the hose and went back to playing, cool. Not cool were the pustulant welts on his feet this morning - The Boy is allergic to the bites, and one of them is swollen and oozing, black around the edges, and generally fairly horrible to look at. It'll heal...but it's nasty and painful and I hate that he has to suffer it.

I have a pulled muscle in my neck/shoulder/back/I may need an anatomy lesson to figure out that part, and it bothered me all night - every time I moved, it woke me, and I don't sleep very well as it is. I couldn't even tip my head back to rinse my hair in the shower yesterday, which made the job awkward. I have a tremendous lot of house cleaning to do, still, and it won't be easy when I keep getting checked up by "Ow, that motion hurts. Ow, reaching up or down like that is unpleasant. Ow, ow, ow..."

My son, for some unexplained reason, got out of his bed in the middle of the night, wandered into the living room, and fell asleep in the massive recliner that I loathe but sit in because I don't have a choice right now...and he wet himself during the night. I've cleaned it up as best I can, and I didn't yell at the little guy - how can I be mad at him when he tries so hard? I'm more concerned with what has him wandering about in the middle of the night.

One of the cats knocked over a 9/10 full large Coke from Burger King last night (yo, FTC, this is not an endorsement, it's a reference - I just want the reader to understand the size of the thing), splattering it all over the floor. I had a large, sticky mess to clean up when I got up this morning.

I'm not feeling mentally well. Lack of sleep, worry, stress, loneliness, plaguing dreams, the constant drag of cleaning a house that is too cluttered, needs painting and drywall patched and floors thoroughly swept and mopped and toys tidied away and furniture removed or moved and, and, and...it's wearing on me. Coupled with that is the constant fear that things will go wrong (don't ask me what things, I don't know what things...if I knew what things I could do something about the things, but I don't know what things so I'm lingering in thing purgatory).

I'd like to take The Boy to a movie, get out of the house, go do something fun...but I can't. I can't pay the phone bill right now (and if that gets turned off, so does the modem, which means good-bye Internet until I can pay to have it turned back on), let alone help support the Hollywood Entertainment Complex.

I'm feeling sorry for myself, and I don't like it. The depression is pecking away at me...

And...like the sun shining through the grey and gloom...

He calls.

For no other reason than He feels like it. Right in that moment when I was typing about depression pecking...the phone rang and it was Him, and I could hear the smile in His voice when I answered, surprised - it's not His lunch time, and He doesn't usually call me during the day, anyway...except when he does it just to surprise me and make me smile. Just when I was thinking I could really use hearing His voice...

I didn't tell him I'm feeling rough today...if we only have a few moments to talk, I want to hear Him, hear His voice and His happiness and His plans...and my mental state bores me, and I can't imagine why anyone else would want to know about it, too.

So I had that minute or two...and believe it or not, that will help get me through the rest of what is looking like a very long, distressing day full of little trials, necessary roughness that every life contains but that makes the sweetness all the...sweeter.

Last night I woke from a dream
More real
Than the night-dark room around me
Lingering warmth
Reminded me
Where your hand rested
Phantom hand
And where you'd kissed
Phantom lips
And my own lips burned
With the memory of having tasted you
Of wanting more

Was it real?
Did we ever really touch?
Or did I dream it?

I woke to an emptiness
Not strictly physical
Returned to slumber
Where I could lose myself
In a dream more real
Than the night-dark room around me.

Stupid Misfiring Neurons

Have you ever wanted something? Wanted it more than you've ever wanted anything else? Ached to have it? Just about needed it to live? Yeah, me too.

Have you ever been so close to having what you wanted that you could taste it? Or brush it with your fingertips? But every time you get close...it's just a little out of reach? Yeah, me too.

Have you ever had a dream that seemed so real, it lingered after you woke, almost memory? Yeah, me too.

I love a man. He's a good man, easy to love. He loves me back. I am not a good woman, not easy to love...but he's managing it. Bless him. Sometimes I have to stop, close my eyes, and breathe, I'm so overwhelmed by the feelings he engenders in me. Sometimes I think of him and smile and feel like I'm floating...and then I look around to speak to him and he's not right there next to me and I crash back down.

Last night, I had a bad dream. He doesn't need to know about it. He has enough troubles of his own right now, he doesn't need my stupid misfiring neurons to burden him too. That's why I have this place, right? Sigh. He can't read it right now, anyway...one of his troubles, no Internet access. I am hoping he'll right that, for his sake and for the sakes of the other people who give a damn about him (I'm not the only one who loves him, whom he loves - he has a generous heart), but it'll be a while before he can.

So. Bad dream.

I dreamed he went away. Just up and left, off into the wilds of...I don't know where. He took his computer and his phone with him, but he didn't answer e-mails or calls. He just...forgot me. I didn't matter any more. In the dream it seemed I never mattered in the first place, and he was just tired of me so he decided not to bother any more. I was lost, confused, and deeply hurt...and I couldn't breathe, couldn't think...I was blinded by a sort of desperation to find him, to know he was alright, because within the dream itself, at first I didn't know he didn't want me any more, that I was annoying him with my persistence; all I knew was that he'd disappeared and I was frantic to find him and couldn't.

After searching for a little while I realized he just didn't want me, and my heart shattered. I woke up.

That dream has lingered. All morning, it has haunted me, teasing the edges of my mind. I know it's just a dream. My admittedly limited rational self knows it was a dream. But my emotional self? Yeah...that part of me is convinced it was real and he's going to stop calling and stop answering and leave me empty and alone...

Sigh.

You'd never know that a few months ago, before I met him, I had made up my mind I would just be alone for the rest of my life and be OK with that - that I figured I'd be better off...everyone would be better off...

Stupid misfiring neurons...why can't I dream the winning lottery numbers??

Just Click Your Heels

It's all fun and games until it isn't.

I was playing a game, passing some time, trying to convince myself that I didn't really need to eat one of the brownies I just baked - don't ask me why I'd bake brownies and not eat them, I'm a girl and we're not logical.

Anyway, I was done with one section of the game and clicked a button to return to another section, and the game asked "Do you want to go home?"

Oh...oh, yes please.

Home isn't a place, really. Or...it is a place, but outside of the space we perceive as space. It's a place within ourselves, I think. A sense of belonging. A sense of being in the right place...the right place in space, and time and our lives, of life, in general, being right as it is in the moment, through a succession of moments...a sense of completion...

You know what? It's damnably difficult to nail down.

But I know I'm not there...yet.

Yet.

I will be. Home. I will be home.

Poor Eponine...

...sometimes, I know just how she feels.

Worth

When you cry, do your tears make your face itch? Or is that just one more way I'm weird?

I have cried a lot in the last few days.

I'm tired. I'm lonely. I am hurting. I am scared.

My head won't leave me alone.

Now it's telling me that dreams are futile...that no matter how much I hope, no matter how much I want to believe that maybe I have value...it's an illusion, a delusion.

My head is telling me I'm worthless, and the sooner I accept that, the better.

It doesn't help that I can't seem to make anything of myself...can't sell my art, or my words, can't even really sell my music...can't hold a job like productive people do...can't do anything but take up space.

I remind myself that I cannot expect anyone to value me when I don't value myself...

Yeah, I'll let you know how that works out.

Have you ever felt weak? Physically, emotionally?

I feel weak. I want to curl up on my bed, under the covers, and cry. I've been working all day, and since mid-morning I've wanted to leave my work undone and hide in my room.

I feel shaky and unwell.

I feel very alone, and empty.

I wish I had someone to put an arm around me, pull me close, and comfort me. A shoulder to cry into. I could use a good cry.

I miss something I've never had, and it sucks...and I have this fear that I never WILL have it, and that sucks, too.

Sometimes, I hate my emotional self.