I’m Worth It


Yesterday I shopped. It’s such a rarity when I shop I could literally mark the days on the calendar and at the end of a year there wouldn’t be more than five such days noted. It’s that rare. I hate shopping. Hate the crowds, hate the pressure of sales people looking over my shoulder and making suggestions, and I hate dressing rooms – they make me a bit paranoid. All of that means days for shopping are rare. But on my high yesterday, I strolled thru the mall. Looked at every window. Went into every shop I’ve never been in before. I even (gasp) touched some clothes to feel the fabrics – that’s like mining gold out of your basement. Just doesn’t happen for me.

My brother had to laugh a bit at me as I left the house. My behavior merited the laughter; I kept asking how I looked because yesterday I made an effort. I got out of my sweatpants, T shirt, and hoodie, and put on clean jeans and a neat sweater. I brushed my hair down – it’s getting longer so it’s a bit easier to make it look smooth – and washed my face. I made more of an effort going to the mall yesterday than I have for anything else I can think of right now. And I felt naked; the jeans I wore were form fitting (oh god!), the sweater was a cropped affair that threatened to show my tummy flab (oh god!), and I swapped my usual 3/4 length winter coat for a jaunty bright blue jacket I have that lets the tight jeans and the short sweater show (oh god!). I also swapped my ever present back pack for a purse. I’ve got to be the most AWKWARD woman on the planet with a purse. It just doesn’t feel right. The strap slips from my shoulder and I don’t know how to hold the damn thing and look natural. And I’m continually paranoid about a purse. My backpack is secure when I’ve got it on – you’d have to cut it or take me down to get anything out of it. But a purse? Damn! It’s like an extra appendage flapping along beside me, and it’s easy to rip that mother away from my side. *sigh* But I gotta admit the purse is more stylin’ than my backpack.

My wardrobe didn’t expand yesterday, but I did find the bright sheets for my bed that I wanted. Red. Bright, brilliant red. I was dead on right about paying a premium; they ended up costing twice what a plain sheet at Hema (a Dutch chain store) cost. But they’re SO bright. I’m happy. Just two more colors to make a strong splash in my room: orange and purple.

Feeling good enough (still) that I’m contemplating some major cleaning today. The dust bunnies need to be rounded up and branded (mine’s the triple B brand: Bored Beyond Belief). Get those suckers sucked up and ready for a trip to the garbage can. Get the layer of grey off everything, too. Make it shine. Bright, bright, bright. I want my home to dazzle my eyes with all the shine when I open the drapes.

…And I want to work on Dutch and get back to a possible story and turn on my music and produce. Still riding that injection high. If the long term risks of steroid shots were lower, I’d be asking for one every time I see the doctor. Every time. Hell, I’d want a rotation of a shot every month. Don’t care how big that needle is. Nothing boosts me up like this. Whooopeee!

Well, I’ll relish it while it lasts. Still need to find the counseling center for my appointment on Wednesday. It would be best to do that while it isn’t raining. I’ll try to get the house clean enough to get thru my next low period. And I’d like to just take a walk and enjoy taking the walk with no pain in my feet. That’s rare enough!

All of these up feelings have led me to monitor my smoking again. Low periods = me not caring. High periods means I care. Doesn’t mean I’ve stopped or even slowed down much. But I do question myself every time I light up – can’t you wait another 15 minutes? Sometimes the answer is yes, and I wait. Other times, no. Awfully difficult to monitor my smoking without heaping guilt on my head every time I reach for a J. Geez, you’re firing up again? Yes I am. Go away. I’ve got fucking permission to smoke. Not THIS much. Yeah, but I’ve not started counseling yet. What do you want me to do? Stop cold turkey on my own? You know what happened last time. But couldn’t you just slow down? Drop ONE joint a day? 


So my head and I have agreed to disagree on this and say nothing more to each other because we can’t say anything nice. We also know if we just keep more BUSY we’ll stop smoking so much.

Have to mention a comment by my bro yesterday because it made me laugh so hard. It also made me think. He made a joke about how much of a hermit I’ve become and how little I want to get out of the house, complete with gestures, facial expressions, and sarcastic mimicry of some of the vocal noises I make. Made me roar! But what an eye opener…to see myself thru the eyes of that joke. And I did see myself, with my frizzy, uncombed hair in my baggy clothes with a J smouldering away in the ashtray as I typed on my computer in the early hours. I say this is a temporary phase for me, that this person who smokes too much and doesn’t shower often isn’t really me. The me that REALLY is is still the artist, still the performer. But this ‘temporary’ phase has lasted so long you can’t really call it ‘temporary’ anymore. It’s become the norm for me. Somewhere along the line I chose to be this: to not care about my appearance, to get stuck in a loop. Not consciously. I didn’t think it would be great to be this. But I decided I wasn’t worth the effort, which led to me not caring about how I look. Not caring about how I looked contributed to my isolation: I felt I looked scraggy and unkempt, and my embarrassment led me to avoid social contact with other ‘well kept’ people. A perfect circle of negative support. I’m good at making those!

Well, mark the calendar. I’m gonna be making an effort from now on. Because I’m worth it.





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