No can sleep. Up out of bed after an hour of damned tossing and turning. Amazing how absolutely 100% uncomfortable I can get in ANY position in bed when my body decides that no, we don’t need any more sleep DESPITE the fact our brain is fucking exhausted and wants to drop over.
I’m up now. Put the coffee on. Maybe elusive sleep will return at that inconvenient mid-afternoon point. I could give a fuck .
Tears were what made my feet hit the floor. Just…tears. Been doing damned well. Exercise, diet, even watching my smoking. Feels like it’s all just one big water balloon that just burst in my face. Who gives a fuck? Why does any of it matter? Christ, we’re back to the fucking basics again. Don’t know why every time I drop I have to drop right thru to the fucking basement of emotions. Can’t I just hang out on a lower level? No. Right back to the very bottom. Or maybe I just never really left. I don’t know anymore. All I DO know is I’m tired of tears leaking from my eyes. Sorrow without end, and for no fucking concrete reason.
I’m tired of crying for the world and not knowing why.
Time to dig in.
…Oh, this isn’t going to be easy. There’s a lump in my throat and I haven’t even begun. Okay. I got two options. Look as deep as I can and try to figure out what might be un-figure-outable, or try to build myself up, keep my head above water. Five fucking in the morning and I have little hope of either, frankly. Just getting past the NOW I’m so damned uncomfortable in will be enough.
*sigh* One line brush offs are on my mind. Simple sentences that, in five words or less, tear down everything that comes before and make it look like shit. “Oh, that’s just (fill in the blank)”. There you go; the big culprit. “That’s just”. Like anything is “just”. Doesn’t matter if it’s six seasons of Lost or 50 years of my life – when I hear “that’s just” I go ballistic.
Feels like I’m living a “that’s just”. Depressed? Oh, that’s just your negativity. Excited? Oh, that’s you just being manic. Upset over something? That’s just you being triggered. GODDAMN IT! I am NOT a “that’s just”!. I get treated like that a lot, but that’s not what I am.
Can’t tell you how fucking FRUSTRATING it is to be borderline this or that or whatever. Sick enough to know I really do need some help but not sick enough to be taken seriously. Don’t know if I need a pill or just someone to blow steam off at once in a while but this shit isn’t normal. Or it isn’t supposed to be normal. Doesn’t matter how many times I wake up at 4 a.m. unable to sleep or jump out of bed by 5 a.m. because the tears are starting up – this will NEVER be normal. It may be usual for me, but I KNOW it isn’t normal.
Life is hard fucking enough without feeling like shit 75% of the time.
And I am so unwilling to drag someone through my history. Or, more accurately, drag several people through my history. ‘Cause that’s what happens when you go into the system, right? That fairy tale movie version of having one person you go to time after time, someone you build a relationship with through trust, just doesn’t happen. You get bounced around, person to person. You have to tell your story – your painful fucking story – over and over and over ad infinitum. And then they sit across their fucking desks and say ‘hmm’ or ‘aah’ and suggest you eat some fruit and take a fucking walk every day and they’ll see you next week, same time, and in the meantime TRY to not kill yourself.
That. does NOT. help.
It is not beyond my notice that this recent…whatever it is, has hit me just prior to a prolonged hot spell of weather. Seems atmospheric changes affect my mood as much as my RA. It’s been decades since I’ve been able to feel good in hot, sunny weather. No doubt the rather cool summer up to this point has helped me stay a bit better physically and emotionally. Today that begins to go bye-bye. By tomorrow, we’ll be sweltering. My dread over an expectation of feeling more pain AND depression isn’t helping, I know.
I feel like the gates of hell are yawning open at my feet. My poor, tired feet.
At least my rheumatologist gave me a script for paracetamol. 1000mg tablets. They’re horse pills, but it’s easier to take one than swallowing two pills every four hours. Didn’t think I’d be reaching for them as often as I am when I got the prescription filled. Then again, I didn’t think I’d be back down on the floor, asking my body to do all sorts of sit ups and leg lifts, either. It says a lot that I feel good enough to even attempt it. The stiff and uncomfortable way I walk for 5-10 minutes every time I get up after working out says something, too. Not sure if it’s saying I’m not on enough meds or just ‘baby, you ain’t 20 anymore’. Telling myself it’s like my shoes: it’s gonna take time. I’ve got no right to bitch until after the first three weeks of work are over and done with. Got wear in my body as much as those new shoes. Keep doing a bit, every day. Keep hoping it will get better.
Got stuff to look forward to. Autumn is coming; my favorite time of the year, bar none. Friends might visit. The theatre group should be contacting me. Language lessons will begin soon. In few short weeks my mood will do it’s normal pick up and I’ll be flying, feeling good, no more tears. Just like the advertising says.
And if the product worked half as good as the advertising claims, I’d be using that shampoo every day.