Shoot the Moon

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Just back from a  2 hour walk. Too much, too far. Didn’t mean to do it. I meant to go out and pick up a few items at the nearby store, only 10 minutes away. Got there and they weren’t open yet. Started walking. Kept walking. And walking. And walking. Got lost. Looked around for landmarks I’d recognize. Found one, thought ‘how the hell did it get over THERE?’. Walked towards it, found I’d turned myself around completely and wasn’t even traveling the direction I thought I was. Corrected my course, kept walking.

I ended up at another shopping plaza, loaded up my backpack with an additional 5 kg of stuff and limped back the last 15 minutes to home. Oh, my feet HURT! Feels like I’ve got blisters popping on my soles (I’ve looked, and I don’t. Just feels that way).

Glad I got up and took a walk today. Not very happy that I turned it into a marathon. Wasn’t my intention when I got up. But the early morning air was sweet, the music I chose on my iPod was snappy and upbeat, and I became the energizer bunny.

I challenged myself this morning, too. I decided to wear a sun dress. Normally I don’t. No matter how hot it is, I tend to wear pants because I hate my thighs. Today I thought, ‘well, it’s early morning and it’s warm. there aren’t a lot of people out. i can get away with it”. It was DIFFERENT. I felt GIRLY. I strutted a bit. I swayed my hips to make the skirt swish around. I’ve still got the damn thing on and I may just wear it all day today.

Still having a hard time when people stare at me. My first thought is always I’ve got a bugger hanging out of my nose or something like that. Something BAD. It just doesn’t occur to me that people look at me because they think I’m pretty. That thought doesn’t hit me until later, like now when I’m reflecting on it. And even then I have a hard time accepting it.  I know in certain situations and certain lights I can look like a knock out. I just don’t get it when I know I don’t look that way and they STILL think I’m attractive. Why would ANYONE want to spend time with me? I normally don’t.

The reminder I set on my computer to take my injection is staring at me this morning. Alert! Alert! Pierce your flesh with a needle today. In case you fucking forgot. Because if you don’t you won’t be able to take another walk like you did this morning. Ever. Bleh!

My brother’s been so manic lately I’m getting concerned. I’m usually concerned about him. He bleeds when he goes to the bathroom. We’ve had it checked by numerous doctors (I was even present for a colonoscopy). No tumors, no fissures, no bleeding hemorrhoids. It’s been suggested he’s doing it to himself, but that’s a load. I know him better than anyone else walking this planet. He wouldn’t do that. He’s just as worried about it as me. I think what happens is he strains too much and bleeds at times. Unfortunately, he’s as fast a healer as I am (my last injection at the doctor’s office the nurse turned around to put a plaster on the spot and she couldn’t find it because my skin had closed up already). So I think it’s happening, but he’s healing so fast that by the time the docs look at him they see nothing. Doesn’t help that a stupid doctor once told my brother he’d be dead by the time he was 25.

…..Been doing a whole lot of nothing lately. That’s what it feels like. Feels like you could squash all the activity I’ve put in during the last week and get maybe 3/4 of a day of work out of it. This is bullshit. Just as bullshit as all the ‘fat’ names I call myself even though I’m losing weight. I’ve done plenty, especially when I factor in my age and RA. Just because I’m not going full speed and working until I drop doesn’t mean I’m not moving. Got to LEARN that one!

Shit, man. I ain’t gettin’ down to it.

Okay. Honesty time. I spent most of my walk fantasizing about being a sex pot, a film star, adored by millions, on the cover of magazines, strutting my stuff. FUCK, I hate to admit that. Makes me feel like an ass. I’m perfectly OK putting down all my fears and neuroses OTHER than my whatever you want to call them flights of fancy or manic episodes. Delusions of grandeur. THAT’S more appropriate, and I fucking know it. I get DELUSIONS OF GRANDEUR. I know little fancies are fine, but mine get out of hand. I become the complete fucking center of the universe for everyone, not just me. Fucking out of control.

I hate admitting to any of that because it feels so OPPOSITE of where my brain generally lies. Yet it’s there, and it’s there quite a bit. It’s far more gossamer a thought than my depressive ones; THOSE stick around with me like a bad underarm odor. But the highs are just as powerful. They’re the times I make big life decisions that generally end up biting me in the ass. I start down paths and projects that I have little hope in actually FINISHING if I take a moment and step back to acknowledge my reality. Problem is, I can’t step back when I’m there. I think I’m going to follow through. I think the energy and enthusiasm I feel is going to continue. It never does. It’s always cyclical. I always go down. And I begin to fear my ups because I know the down is coming afterwards, sometime. It may be days or hours or weeks or years; I never know. But I know it’s coming, it always does.

Wow. Yep. I’m fearing my ups because I know the down is coming. I’m hyper vigilant for the down right now. And maybe that’s part of my anger and irritation that keeps raising its head…my fear of going back down that well of darkness. Back into that pit where I can’t see any light. Fuck, I think I just hit it.

…And hells bells, I’m proud of the way my cleavage looks in this dress. The swimming is REALLY toning my upper body.

Fuck it. Time to shoot the moon.

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2 thoughts on “Shoot the Moon

  1. Oh yes. Fearing the ups because you know the down is coming! Totes get where you’re coming from with that! I spent most of my 20s talking myself down from a manic episode… Not that it helped much, but if I hadn’t, I would’ve been off my trolley…

    And sista, if you’ve got it, flaunt it! Bring out the big guns – your weapons of mass distraction 😉

    Liked by 1 person

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