No hope of finishing this before my brother gets up. I slept in, and for some unfathomable reason he’s getting up earlier and earlier these days.
Tried to get out of the house yesterday to stave off my growing depression. Went out with a mission: find new sunglasses, ’cause the ones I got now are cracked and ready to fall apart. Got dressed (NOT sweatpants), combed my hair, strapped on a bra, even ditched my usual backpack for a purse. Wanted to be a real person for a few hours. Got all the way to the far end of the mall when pain hit my foot, more specifically, the bunion I’ve got (think there’s a bursa in there now). Very unhappy. Limped back to the metro, limped home. Foot up, ice on. Ow. Ow, ow, ow.
Rest of the day was spent on my ass. Feel like my life is passing me by while I sit on my ass in the apartment. I hear the metro coming and going, people talking and driving and riding their bikes and LAUGHING for fuck’s sake outside my window. They’re all ALIVE. I’m half alive, sitting here once again relegated to my fucking chair because I’ve GOT to stay the fuck off my feet for goddess only knows how long. AGAIN.
I goddamn HATE this motherfucking rheumatoid arthritis and all the fucking complications that come with it. Feel good, plan for something, get out there and WHAM! Hits you like knives. Makes me pull up, limp, clench my fist when I take a fucking step so I don’t cry or let it show too much on my fucking face.
It’s summer and sunny and I don’t want to be inside.
Feel like my life is pretty much over. Want to get out to dance festivals, hear the new DJs. Can’t. Physically. Hate my body right now. Hate that it hurts to change my shirt. Hate how much I struggle to get a bra on or off. Hate how slow I walk. Hate how tired it makes me feel, so that I yawn even when I’m completely engrossed in whatever is going on. Hate how I have to support my own ARM when I lift it up a certain way because fuck if the goddamn tendonitis is going to let me just raise my arm without pain.
And I think, go on. Buy those old lady clothes. Let your hair go grey. Use a cane, or one of those mobility scooters. You deserve it. You hurt. You’re physically disabled. You NEED it.
Fuck that. You can fucking bury me with my backpack. I’ll wear my VANS, thank you very little. And my fucking hair better look good, mother fuckers, or I’ll be back to fucking haunt you.
I do not – do NOT – want to be old. I’m fighting it. I don’t have to turn into that dotty old woman that smells a bit like pee ’cause she can’t really control her bladder and doesn’t remember to take a fucking shower. I do NOT have to let my bones settle and forget about late nights and parties and great dance music thumping away. I just gotta find a new rhythm for myself, that’s all. And if you don’t like, fuck off.
Does not help my head to feel fashion-less at the mo. Looked at the store fronts yesterday. Looked at the clothes. All the clothes that look so good on the tiny stick mannequins they use. All the clothes that end up looking ridiculous on my fat body. Saw an older woman who looked GORGEOUS and thought yeah! That’s the way I want to look. Took another look; her hairstyle must have cost at least €100, and the outfit many times more than that. She looked great, no doubt. I don’t got that kind of money. Can’t I look good for less?
What I NEED is a personal shopper. Someone to help me, cause I have zero fashion sense. Put me in the right clothes and I can appreciate how good I look. I just can’t PICK those clothes out myself. I don’t know how to shop for what looks good on me. And I gotta work within the confines of my physical ailments. Can’t be on heels with MY feet. All that costs moolah, which I don’t have.
Bleh. I’m unhappy today. With myself. Disappointed in my body. It can’t keep up with even the smallest tasks right now, and I hate it for that. Worst part is, I HAVE to be kind to my body right now. Not ask it to walk too much, or get too tired. I have to keep off that fucking foot as much as I can.
Somewhere today there are people headed to the beach to play and swim and have a BBQ. I’d like to be with them. Somewhere today people are planning to head to clubs tonight to dance. I’d like to be with them. Somewhere today there are people running the errands of their lives; shopping, cleaning, picking kids up and meeting friends. I’d like to be with them.
…And somewhere, in some reality, I’m dancing. I’m performing. I’m being the ME I want to be.
And I so want to be HER.
When I finally manage to break down the construct of this reality – and given, that may not be until I die – I’m gonna crack that motherfucker wide open. Boom.
So. I can sit here and continue to feel sorry for myself. For all the things I can’t do right now. Or,…..Or I can pick myself up, wipe away my tears and think about what I CAN do. I CAN continue to work on my music, my love, my passion. I CAN continue to enjoy myself through films and tv and the internet and games. I CAN open up the windows and let all that life in to blow around the apartment. I CAN walk out and sit in the sun on my balcony. I CAN continue to fight. Fight the depression, the self blame, self hate.
I refuse to give into this.