I’m still angry at Heike. Talking to the walls, practising what I’ll say, how I’ll react next time I see her. Then it occurred to me that she wasn’t feeling that way; for her, I’m a job. She sees me, takes 10 minutes to make notes, and then puts me out of her mind. I do not trouble her sleep or rile up her anger each and every damned day, like she does to me. I’d like that kind of dispassion. Visit over, just put her out of my mind. Gonna do my best to let it all go.
‘Letting it all go’ is much tougher once your brain has gone over that edge. Doesn’t matter if it’s the edge of depression or anger, if it started with abuse or abandonment. Once your brain is there the simple act of letting go becomes monumental. I’d rather spend 10 minutes in a closed room with someone continually shouting at me ‘don’t think about penguins! don’t think about penguins!’ because then, of course, I’d think about penguins. ANYTHING to get my mind off this shit.
Step it up. Got plans. Things to do, tasks to tackle. The one shining promise in my day today is the slot marked ‘TIME TO WRITE’. Scheduled writing has never been too successful for me; while I can push through some rough patches, it never leads to the kind of flow I really enjoy. It’s like the three legged donkey of writing. It goes, it does something, but it kind of just limps along at an ungainly pace and in the end you’re not sure if you really wanted to witness what just happened. However, if I wait until the mood strikes me and the neighbors aren’t making too much noise and my brother isn’t on my butt about listening to his latest mix, I’ll never get anything done. So scheduled time it is. Chances are high I’ll just sit there, reading the last paragraph over and over. Or I’ll write two sentences, sit back, then decide I’d rather be working on music. But I’m gonna try.
Language is another step up program. Once a week in class is a good basis to build on, but I’ve got to put in more time. CONSISTENTLY. I do put in more time here and there, but once again I’ve got to schedule it in. Make sure I get to some exercises at least two times other than class. The basics still need to get ingrained in me. And I need more words. More phrases, more adages, more of the way the Dutch say things. I’m so CLOSE to forming solid sentences. Just a bit more drilling and practice with grammar. Then it will be second nature.
*shakes head* I’m doing it again, aren’t I? Setting myself up to overload. Putting expectations on myself so I have an opportunity for some self beating when I don’t measure up or follow thru. Right. I’d like to buckle down harder. No, that’s still not right and the damned phrase itself indicates putting myself under pressure. ‘Buckle down harder’, indeed! How’s this? I want to do more. A broad statement, to be sure. But accurate. And no hidden pressure. Fine. I want to do more. More with my life, more with my time. It’s great to occasionally blow off the day and just have fun doing whatever. You can’t make a life out of it. I know; I’ve tried.
Good Goddess, I’ve flipped around. Just a few days ago I was happy and going off about all my accomplishments. Now I’m working hard to not start beating myself up again. And the ribbon that ties it all up is anger. Anger I can’t let go of, anger I can’t stop thinking about no matter how many times I clear my head. The worst part of it is that I know I’m the only person getting stopped up by this. It doesn’t affect Heike or the jerk who pisses me off by pushing past me. No one’s skin is burning off their bones (too bad!). The only thing that’ll end up burning is my stomach acid if I let this go on too long.
There’s a 10:30 open pool today, and I think I’ll go. Even if I just float there for an hour.
*sigh* And I’ve another phone call to brave. To my dermatologist to set up an appointment. More Dutch. More phone. Recent successes prop me up and give me courage, but it’s still a big thing. I just hate phones.
Kindness is still foremost in my thoughts. Be kind to myself. Even though I hate the circumstances that have brought this on, I’m pleased to find me so eager to support myself. It’s difficult for me. It’s difficult to know the difference between being kind to myself and being lazy or using my emotions as an excuse to fuck off and smoke. Hells bells! I can’t even BEGIN to tell the difference. I’m just walking the line, doing my best to keep it together and move. The goal is to move forward; I don’t always achieve that. Sometimes it feels like I backstep or sidestep. Must look like I’m doing a little dance from above. And it is a dance; that’s all life is. We’re all ballerinas twirling around on top of the music box called reality. Some people’s gears get stuck, some people wind down. Others seem to circle around endlessly with a stupid look painted on their faces.
Well, I’m not gonna overwind my box today. That tutu HAS to come off. If my fate is to dance, I’ll dance at my own pace and rhythm. I’ll do my own moves. This is MY dance, not Heike’s or Yoda’s or my brother’s – or my MOTHER’S. Mine. And just like my writing or my music, my dance will not be to everyone’s taste. That doesn’t negate what I do, NOR how I do it. I AM moving. If it’s too slow, time lapse film me and then speed it up.
You’ll see me dance.