Yesterday, I got out of the house and breathed fresh crisp air. I let the wind whip my hair around. I looked at the sun and the sky.
Didn’t change much.
Down for 10 hours last night; could have slept in til noon today. Maybe not even got out of bed. Who cares? Not me. Fuck it. Fuck it if I’m supposed to write. Fuck studying the language. Fuck staying on a diet. Fuck it all. I can’t laugh today. Can’t even muster a smile right now.
The sheet of dead has wrapped me up, head to toe. Dead. Zero. No reaction to anything. Tired, tired. Give it up. Die already. Fuck you. And I ain’t crying yet, so it’s still a GOOD day. Fuck.
Had spikes of refined pain shoot through my head all day yesterday and they’re still a comin’. Not always there, just an occasional ZAP once or twice an hour that makes me hold my head and squeeze my eyes shut.
Can’t ya just put me under anesthesia and take that out? Please?
…I think I’d better take my temperature…Normal. How can that be? I guess it is all in my head.
*sigh* It’s Monday. Gotta draw up my battle plans for the week. I’ve got language class and swimming to look forward to. Things I enjoy. I could even get in the pool today. Maybe I should. My shoulder is still fucked to high heaven, but maybe I should blow the four euro and sixty cent and get the fuck in the water. No one can tell you’re crying when you’re in the pool. Tears mix with chlorine water and it’s all one.
Fuck fuck fuck!!! This line of thought is just gonna drag me the fuck down. Stop this shit RIGHT NOW!
Proaction. I said I’d do anything that would help me right now, and I meant it. Gonna hold myself to that promise.
Okay…I do not feel strong enough to make an appointment with my GP, wait for said appointment, then talk to her about the counseling center. I don’t think I can get through it without breaking down. I also don’t think I’ve got it in me to call the counseling center myself. All I imagine is too much Dutch, which I can’t understand, and resulting frustration. Okay. That makes it tough to help myself, but okay.
I can write a note. Drop it at the doc’s office. I can tell my bro. Not that he’s blind, but still. Say the fucking words.
Fought it off til after my b-day. That’s about as much as I can ever hope for. Made it all the way to December before I broke down. Whoo. hoo.
Still wanna get that fucking WWBD bracelet, guys?
First thought: start popping pills. A bit of this, a bit of that. I’d get sleepy but I’d stop the tears. Second thought: don’t want to eat. Ever again. Third thought: smoke something, woman! Fourth thought: FIGHT.
Today my victory will be a smile. Today fighting looks like laughter. I’m gonna get myself out of this house today. Even if it’s just for a walk around the block. I’m gonna get out of pajamas. Get dressed. I’ll try music immersion and cartoons and ANYTHING. I’ll smoke as I please: fuck you, Addiction Central. I’ll drop myself into the fantasy of Downtown Abbey or DS9 or something to get my head out of my ass.
The titanic may be sinking but I’ll go down still playing my tune, still defiant. I CAN keep fighting. I WILL. This isn’t gonna break me. I’ll go down; I’ll feel helpless. But I’ll live. I’ll make it. And I’ll come back up someday.
The wheel doesn’t stop turning.