Pull the right string

Nothin’ else for it. Time to write that note. Time to clear the air and get it out of my life. I just sent Ben something on FB. Figured I’d do it before I begin my blog. This way, if he starts to message me or something, well, I’m on line with my homies. Already in honest rant mode. Felt I could handle it better than the afternoon, when I feel spent and need to rest. I kept it short and succinct. I told him I was not comfortable the other night. That’s my own shit, and I owned it. I laid no blame. In another lifetime there’d be nothing to blame him for; his advances would have been reciprocated.

So now I have ‘closure’ on this current chapter in my life. I hope it will ease my troubled feelings. I hope I’ll be able to go back out on Facebook without fear. Been avoiding it for the past week. Been avoiding a lot – basic human contact, for the most part. Caught myself shrinking away from men who passed close by me on the metro or in a hallway. Truth is, this past week I’ve given every man other than my bro a wide berth. Sometimes I feel my bro is the ONLY man on the planet who won’t come on to me. Hell, I feel that way a LOT. Which is why I’m so safe with him. Anything can happen; he’ll never grab me or hurt me or force me. Never. It would never cross his mind, which is more than I can say for my OTHER brother left back in the states. HE made it quite clear that he’d fuck me. When I was young. As I grew up. As an adult. Pretty much all the fucking time.

Nothing comes of nothing, and nothing is all I’ve been doing. At least productively. Feels like my hands are full with cravings I’m trying to manage and bad memories I’m trying to deal with. Found the perfect film distractions for me yesterday; Kick-Ass and Kick-Ass 2. I so love Hit Girl. She’s uber cool. And I want the purple wig. Action AND comedy; who could resist? And who would think I’d allow a Nicholas Cage film in my home? I really don’t like him, but he dies in Kick-Ass and he does a good Adam West impression. So the Kick-Ass run is allowed, despite his appearance in it (besides, it’s hard to hate Nicholas Cage in such a screwed up role as Big Daddy – how could I not like a guy who shoots bullets at his kid?).

Sugar. I want sugar and fat. And smoke. But mostly sugar. I tell ya, give me the fucking munchies ANY day of the week over what I’ve been dealing with. Munchies are EASY to disregard. This…This is much harder to ignore, to not reach for sugar and fats and caffeine to make me feel better (or nothing). Alcohol is NOT a problem in my life anymore; I still have one beer sitting in my fridge and no desire to have it. Now, if it was a sugary-laden drink served up with a dollop of whipped cream on top, I’d be drinking it as I type away.

I am back in the pool today. And – if I need it – every day this week. I found the next closest pool to the house. Disappointingly, it’s close to downtown – an 18 minute metro ride away. Doubt that I can make my first thing in the morning swims; they start at 7 a.m., just about the time the first metro is available. But they do have lane swimming on days when my pool doesn’t. As far as I’m concerned, heading in on the metro to swim is a better use of my cash than anything else I can think of right now. Get me in that water! My bro laughed at me when I told him I could live in the pool and swim all day long. He said I’d poop out eventually…I’d just like to know how long that would take. Two hours? Three? Five? How long could I just go at that easy pace? When I’m in the groove I swear I feel I could swim the channel. And I don’t want to stop; the rhythm of the swim takes over and it’s what I become: just this machine in the water, concentrating on my breath, moving repetitiously in the cool wet. I lose myself, and I love it.

Have a new pack of Ativan – all in the bubble packaging – sitting by my chair, a gift from my bro to help me calm down. The last 10 pill pack took what, 4 months to go through? Six? More? I don’t even remember when he gave me the last one because I’m so tight with them. I’d really like a doctor or counselor to say ‘No. Take them. Take a whole one every night and a half of one every day until we get you settled. You’re struggling too much.’. I’d like that permission. I doubt I’ll get it. So I remain tight with my usage.

Just flitting around different areas of the house. Very much like that hummingbird I thought I was becoming: here and there, unable to settle down to anything. It’s distressing in and of itself; I feel I’m letting my language slip and my work slip and everything slip while I indulge in feeling shitty. I acknowledge I’m in the middle of a process, and that’s what you gotta do when you’re in the middle of a process, but I can’t stop beating myself up for being USELESS right now. I mean, when all I do is make my fucking bed and I feel good about that because it was SOMETHING I did, I don’t think I’m doing all that well.

Where is the goddamn life I ordered? This isn’t it. I distinctly remember asking to be slim, beautiful, and rich. Not that any of that would help me right now. It wouldn’t; it doesn’t. I must admit that if I could shift my perspective a bit, I could see that I am slim and beautiful and rich. Ergo: it is my perspective that’s the problem, not my body or my finances. And THAT particular line of thought does nothing to make me feel better; if I already have everything I asked for, then I’m REALLY squandering it away, aren’t I?

Some days I wish I’d never trained on the fucking debate team.

Scoop my brain out and serve it up in a sundae dish. Just fucking get rid of it.

Life is chaotic and time doesn’t exist. Nothing really fucking matters. Only what I have inside; only the me. Not what I do or how I look or even how I end up living and dying. Because NONE of that is me. It doesn’t matter if I quit smoking or not…

Let me get my own head around that, ’cause my fingers typed it without any thought.

Yes. That fits. That’s right; it rings true. I am more concerned with living well than living long. I would rather any counseling help me on my issues like rape and trust than addiction. It’s all tied into one knot; I know that. But I’m shifting my focus from my addiction to my other issues: that’s what needs tackling in my life. The smoking is a side issue. Help me deal with everything else and the smoking will naturally fall away.

Just pull the right string, and it will all unravel…

Both Sides are Burning

After posting yesterday I turned on the news. It was the first I’d heard of Paris. My brother warned me not to watch too much. Only 8 hours away by train. And a threat at Amsterdam airport. Raids in Belgium and Germany. Borders shut.

While most Rotterdamers were out celebrating their version of St. Nick’s day, I stayed away from the screaming kiddies and parents. I never did paint; by the time I found all my paints, my brushes, my extra materials, the canvas, and got the area cleaned up and ready to have a go, I lost all enthusiasm for the project. Maybe it was the news. Maybe it was just perverse me, who’s been rearing her head a lot lately. Or maybe it was the 98 messages in my inbox that I had to get through. Whatever the reason, I hibernated with games and DS9 yesterday, refusing to get out of my jammy-jams for anything.

I smoked a little too much. I ate a little too much. I even drank a beer. Yes, it was a day of indulgence all around. Nothing out of hand; didn’t even smoke an entire extra J, the ‘extra food’ was a regular sized meal, and the beer was kept to one. Still, I feel fat and stupid and indulgent of my own whims this morning. No doubt it would be better for me to continue on with my tight-assed monitoring of myself, riding myself on the smoking issue, beating my body with as much exercise as I can squeeze in. A little leeway yesterday means I’ll belly-ache all the more today – dangerous. Can’t muster more than a ‘so what’ and a shrug this morning. Doesn’t really seem important in the grand scheme of things, you know? Who gives a fuck if I carry an extra ten, twenty, thirty or more pounds? Does it really matter if I continue to smoke or not? No. I ain’t gonna solve any fucking world problems. You people don’t need me fucking sober. I sure as fuck don’t WANT to be sober. So why am I doing this again? Oh, yeah. I passed a number that meant automatic inclusion on the sobriety ride; oh, you smoke that much? Then welcome to the ride, please keep your hands and feet (and opinions) inside the car and to yourself during the ride. If you feel queasy, vomit away. We’re happy to clean up your vomit as long as it’s SOBER vomit. Vomit when you’re high and we’ll make you mop it up. And anything you lose along the way – you wallet, your creativity – is not our responsibility. You should have had a better grasp on it in the first place.

Oh, fuck you.

Wonderful fucking time to get fucking sober, isn’t it? I hate this fucking life. Not mine so much right now, but everyone else’s. If everyone else was dead I could just sit and smoke all day long and NO ONE would say it was wrong. In fact, I’d set THAT as the new norm. Meet a survivor who doesn’t smoke? I must get them smoking!! Why aren’t you smoking? It’s NORMAL. You’re not NORMAL if you don’t smoke in my world. So get puffing. Puff, puff, cough and sputter. There, now. Isn’t that better? Don’t you feel better? I do.

As far as I’m concerned, let me just go. When death comes too close and causes my body too much pain, give me painkillers and an easy death. Fuck you for wanting me to want anything else. It ain’t worth it. It’s all a lie. Marriage? When 50% plus ends in divorce, I think we can take the entire idea of ‘marriage’ and call it a lie. It’s ‘until death do us part’, not ‘until we get sick of the sight of each other do us part’. Fuck you for making it a lie. Fuck you for telling us all we can get ahead in this rigged carnival game. Fucking carnies. Never fucking trust ’em (I JOKE, I JOKE! Got nothing against carnies).

When I make my oatmeal every morning, there comes a time when it’s boiling that enough moisture has been lost and the heat is JUST right so that the oatmeal kind of bubbles up slow motion and then exhales with a ‘pah’ of oatmeal breath at me. That’s what I feel like right now – that ‘pah’ exhale. Insubstantial, ineffective, weak all the way around. Just blowing hot air at people’s faces. Pah. You’re mean and nasty and I don’t want to be near you. Pah. I don’t believe in anything right now. Pah. Fuck. Pah. You.

My brother has been steaming ahead, writing out Dutch language flash cards and working on music and writing and keeping up with shopping and bills and his doctor’s appointments ALL AT THE SAME TIME. I’ve been loading up free one hour trial games on my computer and playing in my jammies. Opposite ends of the spectrum again. I am told thank you for thinking of him as an inspiration, but stop trying to live up to what he’s doing. I am told I’m doing okay as I sit picking belly button lint. It ain’t easy. My restlessness is reaching fevered pitch every night. What was once a ‘I wake up around 10 p.m.’ has become a time I can barely keep seated. I shift my weight around every 15 seconds, trying to find a comfortable place for my body to rest but nothing works. I barely watched Doctor Who last night ’cause it hit during the show…Glad I record it; maybe I can watch it this afternoon when I’m not so fucking antsy. And tired. Antsy and tired at the same time. That’s what’s hard to reconcile: I’m yawning these huge yawns and unable to sit still at the same time. If I could fall asleep standing up, I’d do it. It would satisfy both ends of me right now.

Mom always told me I tried to burn the candle from both ends. At one time, I took that as a reprimand of my lifestyle: the late night parties and early morning work hours. Now I see it as a metaphor for a mixed episode, which is where I think I’m dancing these days. Both sides are burning, melting me away. I’m so fucking tired this morning and it ain’t even 6 a.m. I gotta get some real rest. Soon. I just gotta stop all this. Isn’t there a safe place for me to go while I wig out again? Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Grasping At Straws

Well, the Goddess – or my doctor – decided I’d vacillated enough and took matters out of my hands. As I sat discussing my plan of action with my brother, my mobile rang. Addiction Central was calling ME. First hurdle: a torrent of unfamiliar Dutch words (on the heels of crying, for fuck’s sake, like I’m ready to tackle my hysteria AND Dutch at the same time). Almost thought they’d disconnected me but then ‘Hello?’ in English came thru the mobile less than perfect sound (Good Goddess! I remember when the selling point to phone companies was the ‘clear enough you can hear a pin drop’. Hear a pin drop? Over a mobile? I’m lucky to hear what the fuck the other person is fucking saying.). Long story short: I’m in the system, my info has been checked, and all I’m waiting for is their new system to get up and operating (beginning December 1) so they can give me a call for my first appointment. Yes. I’ll be ringing in all the crap cheer of the year while getting treatment at Addition Central. Fuck.

I smoked 4.3 Js yesterday. Just over the 4th. A bit too restless, a bit too antsy. I thought ‘what the fuck! I’ve been cutting back for a week now, and I’ve gotta wait until the first of December to even start this treatment…I’m smoking.’. I guess I’m glad my mad binge was a whole 1/3 of an extra joint. Not too out of hand. If I’d had to admit to smoking 8 Js yesterday I’d be beating myself up. 4.3 I can live with.

Facing my life sober is … well, a sobering thought. What the fuck am I gonna do all day if I’m not smoking? What, they expect my RA riddled body to get up and move MORE than what it’s been doing? I think I’m on that edge of pushing it too much already. No. My fear is that I’ll be too awake, too alert, too antsy. I have no job and my status does not allow me to get one – and FUCK! Have I wanted one just as a reason to get out of the house every damned day. I have no money to buy the toys I’d need to REALLY keep me busy, like new musical equipment or games or upgrades for my computer. Concentration? Just a game I used to play as a kid now. Don’t ask me to pour you a glass and sit down and talk with you, ’cause it ain’t gonna happen. The only reason I can sit down and write ANYTHING in the morning is my first thing joint, the darkness, and the quiet of both the apartment AND my head before I begin. Take any one of those away and the balance is thrown…

The words of that bitch sister of mine haunt me today “You’re a drug addict”. A drug addict. I guess by going to Addiction Central I’ve got to own up to part of that statement, and I don’t want to. I don’t want to because I don’t think smoking marijuana changes me so goddamn much. It makes me easier to be around, if you want the fucking truth. Nicer. More compliant. Less likely to bite your goddamn head off. You think I get angry now? Babies, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet. I’ve been keeping that side down, down, down. My rage can rip the fucking world apart, or at least that’s the way it feels. Right now, I’m more concerned about what that rage does to ME than what I might do to anyone else (they want me drug free; they gotta live with the bitch that comes out). The pain in my body and mind, the long hours, days, sometimes weeks before it begins to subside. For the past 20 years I’ve managed to avoid most of that; get too upset and I smoke it down – to fuck with the long term consequences on my fucking lungs. Now I’ve got to grapple with it all over again.

My need to stuff down my feelings grew to a fevered pitch yesterday. With my grown up secondary stuffing mechanism on hold (my smoking), I returned to my primary stuffing mechanism: food. Cookies, cakes, candy, sweet sugary stuff with loads of fat….I was in major crave mode yesterday. I managed to control it, mostly because the house doesn’t have that much and what IS in the house isn’t that fatty. I sure as fuck can’t go food shopping while here; all I’d buy would be cakes and stuff right now…I’d stock the house. Glad my bro naturally does most of the shopping because he does most of the cooking.

Just glad for my bro. Again. We found time to really talk yesterday. I told him EVERYTHING about Ben; everything that happened, how I felt, my decisions about how to handle it. I told him about how I’m struggling with my cravings, my headaches, my restlessness. He nodded and told me he wants to support me, just let him know how he can help. He said it was okay for me to drop out of the language class that was driving me up the wall and just go to the Thursday class near our house. He thought it was a good idea that I find another pool to do lane swimming in on days it’s not available at the pool I usually swim in. He gave me extra money ‘in case you want to shop a little, maybe you’ll find something you like’. He reassured me that we’re doing well with finances. He told me he’s scared, too. Pretty much everything I needed/wanted to hear. His medication is really working well.

I feel my strength return as far as Ben is concerned. Everyone’s support has been VERY helpful on this – thank you all so much! Just letting me know it was okay to take care of myself, okay to not respond to him until I was ready, has been a godsend. It’s really hard for me to give permission to myself for some things, so thanks for stepping in and doing that. It’s what I needed. I am unwilling to fill my weekend with ugly messaging, so he will not get any response from me yet. But I’m getting ready to tell him what he did WASN’T okay, I’m not good with it, and goodbye. I’m also getting ready to hit the ‘block’ button on him the second he comes back at me with anything other than ‘Sorry. Goodbye.’. I have identified him as a threat, a clear and present danger. The entire situation is filtered in red in the scene in my head: red like blood. Danger Will Robinson! Danger!!

Got zero plans for the weekend. Another museum trip has been discussed, as have possible film options. I’m playing it loose; no idea what mood I’ll be in minute to minute right now. I still just want to hibernate. Sit and watch DS9 all the way through, all seven seasons of greyed out misty television 42 minute pat stories.

Maybe I will. 10 days to my birthday. You know what my bro said yesterday? He said he’d been EXPECTING my mood to go to shit, that it always does around my birthday. And he’s right. My b-day has been so shitty for so long I automatically expect the worst when it approaches. I really want to break this cycle. Doesn’t seem the year to do it, tho: so much feels like it’s working against me. Goddamn. I know my mood is the break point…If I were more confident, more manic, I’d blow this off and just keep steaming ahead. These are not huge obstacles in my life right now. I’m only MAKING them big: I am safe, I am secure, I am not in any danger at the moment whatsoever. I keep telling myself that, but some part of me wants to borrow worry. Worry about things that haven’t happened yet, that may never happen. I can’t stop it, at least not for long. Best I’ve ever been able to do is numb it out.

Thinking about drinking – another method to stuff my emotions down for a little while. I used to drink a LOT a lot; alcoholic was a label I would have earned when I was 20. Go out, drink ’til I could barely stand. Sometimes I didn’t; there’s one episode in my past (an Iced Tea drinking challenge with some sailors – there you go; the party girl in full fling) where my friend had to drive my car home – which was a manual tranny, and she didn’t know how to drive one. Interesting, disjointed memories of that night. Asking her to pull over so I could vomit out the side…I think we were on a free-way, too….I don’t drink much now. At all. Once or twice a month I’ll have a few beers or ciders. I don’t like drinking now – it makes my RA flare up. The next morning every joint will be on fire, every muscle will burn. Nonetheless, I’ve been contemplating getting some Weiss Biers to have in the evening once in a while. Beh. Just doesn’t feel like a good idea…I’m grasping at straws.

My only real goal these days is to make it to my first appointment. To hang in there as best I can. If I smoke more, I smoke more. If I have a few drinks, I have a few drinks. I’m dealing as best as possible, and promise I’ll only smoke or drink if I really feel I can’t hang on anymore. But I gotta allow myself some breathing room…I just gotta. Because I HAVE been grasping at straws. It’s just that all the straws I grasp at are the bendy kind.

Here Begins a New Life

Another tirade, another hellish day trying to get my emotions under control. I actually think I did pretty well; no screaming or yelling, no slamming anything around, no breaking anything. I didn’t even walk out of language class, tho I was sorely tempted. Today I am paying the price for keeping it in; I feel slightly ill again, I cannot sleep past 5 a.m. tho I am tired, and I am restless and unsure of myself. Seems par for the course lately.

I will NOT go back to my Thursday/Friday language class. Nope. The instructor is an ass-fuck. A complete fucking idiot, and I’ve had my fill of his shit. I tried; I tried to sit through it, to sit through all the nonsense and back and forth and shit that for the last two weeks has made me MORE confused about the Dutch language than ever before. Yesterday was the last goddamn straw. For the umpteenth time, we were given homework that we never went over in class. So I never know if I did well or not. If I need correction or not. Because he doesn’t take the fucking time or have the fucking brains to go over what he gave us last time. Maybe that’s fine for his star pupil, Daisy (NOT her name). Daisy is from Hong Kong, and has lived here for 15 or 20 years. She’s a grandmother and the Dutch flies fast and hard when she speaks. She’s in the class because she can’t pass her citizenship exam. And I think the instructor is gearing everything towards her and her needs. We were given the task of writing short letters to a doctor as a homework assignment. Apparently Daisy walks on water, because the only homework we went over was photocopies of her letter (yeah; the instructor made copies of her letter). First sentence? Wrong verb use. Second sentence? Okay, but fucking too long – I got called out for trying to make long sentences, yet Daisy can apparently fill an entire fucking paragraph with one sentence and that’s perfectly fine. Then there’s also just the goddamn spoken language problem…No one in that class – and I mean NO ONE because even the instructor’s pronunciation is sloppy – speaks without an accent. I got corrected on one diphthong, like it was THE most important thing in the world that I learn how to pronounce the Dutch ‘ui’ property, yet NOT ONE other student speaks clearly or without a heavy middle eastern or eastern accent. And I’m supposed to listen to that shit and learn how to speak CORRECTLY?!? I also do not learn well when I’m asked to write something in class and the instructor comes over and writes OVER MY ANSWER several more sentences that HE thinks I should fucking include. It’s supposed to be a letter from ME. Stop putting YOUR words in MY mouth. I would never say the things he wrote down. Fine if you want me to learn; JUST DON’T DO IT SO FUCKING STUPIDLY AND WE’LL GET ALONG OKAY.

I kid you not: this class is two hours, and yesterday one hour and 55 minutes was a complete fucking waste. My notepaper from yesterday is filled with geometric doodles, the crazy tight kind I make when I’m bored out of my fucking skull. Forget the margins; I filled the entire lower half of the page.

Pft. I’ll be going to the OTHER Thursday class, the one near my home that I can WALK to rather than take the metro. The one that starts at 10 a.m., not 9 a.m. The one my bro’s been in for 2 weeks now and he’s happy, getting one on one attention, and a good grounding in the basics. I can HAVE my Thursday morning hour and a half swim, get dried off, buy an orange juice, and STILL have time to walk my wet swimsuit back to the apt. before class starts. Sounds fucking ideal to me!

Can’t tell if I’m extra angry because of withdrawal symptoms. I’m sure that’s what all the counselors will think first. As far as I’m concerned, this is a return to my normal, non-high state: full of rage. And the first goddamn thing out of my mouth is going to be how pissed off I am that everything that I will say is gonna be slagged off on addiction. Fuck you. Fuck you and your preconceived fucking notions about how humans should act. That’s all this fucking is. I fall outside the norm, therefore there is something ‘wrong’ with me. Oh, you smoke marijuana a lot? You MUST be addicted. That’s your problem. We’ll get you off the herb and everything will be just fine with you. Fuck you. You’re fucking addicted to your dickweed bullshit half assed 80 IQ fucking ideas of the fucking world. Get the fuck over it.

…Apparently, they can’t lock me up here against my will. I don’t quite trust that, but I’m getting more used to the idea…and more and more ready to let loose as soon as they start asking questions. REALLY let loose. With the rage. No one’s seen that yet, ’cause I keep it pretty tight. They’d better not fucking be offended by the word ‘fuck’. They’re gonna hear it a lot.

I’m almost at a half and half state. Half determined to do this no matter what, half ready to run away and never make the next contact. Can’t tell what’s strongest now; it’s too close. Hoping this blog will be my anchor, the thing that keeps me going even thru the fear. I don’t feel strong at all. I know strength is needed to even begin confronting this shit, but really! I’m all limp noodle. Right now I’m worried that by walking in and accepting help from Addiction Central I’ll forever carry certain labels on my record that will taint every conversation I have with any doctor in the future. I have nothing to tell me otherwise….Maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe I should just be locked up and pumped full of fucking meds and left to fucking drool in the corner. Keep me away; I’m a biter.

Fuck. Painfully fucking aware of how inward my arrows have become; how everything right now is about me. Me, me, me. Fucking hate that. It’s a fear reaction; I know that. Doesn’t make me feel like less of an ass for not reading everyone else’s posts and commenting like I usually would. It usually works against me: look how selfish I am (the stack of accusations labeled ‘selfish’ are pretty goddamn high in my life). Trying to let it be okay. Trying to remember to ask my brother how he’s doing and what’s going on with him. Trying to not feel dissed when he doesn’t ask about me in return; maybe I’m faking it better than I thought. Or maybe he’s not asking because he’s got his own hands full and just can’t deal with my extra baggage. I don’t know, and right now I don’t even want to ask. I do feel a bit out in the cold, tho.

Strange, cold suicidal thoughts have been popping up for me again. Hard thoughts. No range of movement thoughts. There was a time when my suicidal thoughts were confined to razor blades and pills. These days my suicidal thoughts are of jumping off a building or in front of a train – much more violent. The utter despondency that such a thought brings has been haunting me for the last 24 hours. I’m afraid I’m slipping. That all of this is pushing me down the well, either through withdrawal (I won’t discount it even tho it elicits a ‘bah humbug’ from me) or just my usual yo-yo. Been getting headaches at night again. The kind you can only sleep away. Restless. In the evening watching tv, it’s now ME who can’t sit still, who fidgets and moves and changes position every two to three minutes, not my brother. Tears are too close. Too easy to cry. Too few of reasons to smile. I am fighting, fighting…but I’m afraid I’m going down for the count.

In one instant last night, when I decided to stop going to class, everything changed. Something shifted in me again. Like that part that’s been hanging on by her bloodied fingernails has decided to just let go and free fall. Plans for today have now gone into the trash; I MUST contact Addiction Central NOW. Another 24 hours and I might not do it. Another 24 hours and I might be looking down from high places with anticipation.

Hate this. Hate feeling it come on me again. Hate losing that high. *ironic laugh* Both highs.

“In that book which is my memory, On the first page of the chapter that is the day when I first met you, Appear the words, ‘Here begins a new life’.”.

Yeah. But it’s a life I don’t want.

Take Your Pick

My wounded self is still raw this morning. A bit better able to handle the world today, thanks to everyone’s comments and a day of indulgence. Still find myself clamping my body down, legs and arms tightly crossed in front of me. Protection. Keep away; don’t touch. Today I wish there was a floating red tape barrier I could erect around myself and carry like a boat…Stay this far away, come no further. Maybe get a car alarm installed on me somewhere. Whooop! Whooop! You have come to close to the body of Beeps. Please back away two feet. The authorities will be called in 10 seconds. 9, 8…

Took all day and The Guardians of the Universe before I laughed yesterday.

To make everything just that bit worse, as I was reading and crying over comments yesterday my e-mail pinged: a new message on FB from Ben. Apparently morning brought the clarity I wished he would have had the night before: I got an enquiry as to whether or not I was upset and half an apology. I say half, ’cause he really doesn’t know what’s going on with me (how could he? that’s decades of shit) so he’s apologizing for his behavior without being really sure if I’m upset or not. I erased it from my inbox and have not yet responded on FB. I may not; I don’t know how to respond right now. Still want to just avoid it all. AND I want to just say to him ‘No, I didn’t appreciate the gropes that went beyond the kiss I gave you permission for. This will not happen again. Goodbye.’. I’m not even sure if I SHOULD open up the conversation, other than to say I don’t think seeing him is a good idea. If I open the topic up at all, it gives him room to maneuver – apologize and promise not to do it again, which I don’t trust for shit. He said that once already, and already he’s gone beyond it. No. I do not trust him at all. I think he’ll do like every other guy in this situation – promise and plead and nag a bit until I give in, then it’s keep the octopus away AGAIN.

How many times have I been raped? I’ve been contemplating that since yesterday. I count two forced fellatios and two forced sexual encounters – and by forced sexual encounters I mean really feeling like there was NO WAY OUT of the situation; submit or be REALLY hurt. Odd how men can discount all the body language when they have a hard on. The turn away of the head, the tightening of all the body, the frigidity they encounter. Do they really derive pleasure? I know the one rape was a complete power thing; it was committed by my then abusive partner who later stalked me for years. The other one I’m thinking of? I don’t know. As with many of my sexual encounters, it was a one night stand thing. I think in that case he just expected me to ‘pay’ for dinner. It was the 80s. That kind of thing happened a lot.

I did manage to get to the doc’s and get my referral letter for Addiction Central. My GP made sure I understood why I was being sent there. Yeah, yeah. Yadda, yadda. All of you are gonna think my fucking irritation is because I’m cutting down on something I’m addicted to. You are such fucking pricks. Never occurred to you that I was fucking irritated with the world to begin with, which is why I began smoking in the first place – to deal with a world of fucking MORONS. No. I’ll go to Addiction Central, therefore I must be addicted, therefore all my behavior will be chalked up to this or that. I’m already fucking angry that no one will listen to me, and I haven’t even begun this fucking process. Apparently Addiction Central has its own staff of psychologists and psychiatrists and every other -ist type of person you want poking around with your emotions. I asked my GP if I should contact the original counseling center after I ‘dried out’ for 30 days, and she indicated there was no reason to – that Addiction Central was gonna take care of any counseling I needed. Yeah. Fuck that. I do not believe it one fucking bit. I believe they’re gonna oversee my quitting, then get into the morass of my mind and find it’s NOT something they’re prepared to fucking deal with and bounce me back to the original goddamn fucking counseling center once the fuck again. THAT’S what I think will happen. Fucking prove me fucking wrong. Oh, yeah. I was told my first appointment would take 2-4 hours, so I’ve got to juggle (1) contacting yet another place that will want to speak Dutch to me (2) getting them to speak English to me, and (3) finding time to go to the appointment. Not very happy about this. Not at all. I know part of my anger is because I’m afraid. I know that. But really! This just seems like a very long trail of breadcrumbs I’ve been asked to follow all by myself. I’m not sure why all the docs – or maybe it’s just mine – seem to think I can make all these phone calls all by myself when they all know I’m not confident with the language yet and a phone call is THE hardest way to talk to someone. And that’s not even factoring in my phone anxiety.

The world according to Beeps: listen to everything other people tell you, all their advice on how to proceed, then do it your own way.

Ended up googling the fucking place and found…an online sign-up. In English. So I can type everything in, clearly state I need an English speaker, and wait for THEM to call ME. Much better. That site claims they’re open and operating 24/7, and I’ll get a call back within half a day. So I’m gonna fill the form in Friday afternoon and expect a Saturday morning call. That works for me, as does an appointment over the weekend if there’s time. I am NOT giving up my swim time.

Two to four fucking hours. The first phone call with the original counseling center was difficult enough, and that only lasted 45 minutes. And I did it from the comfort of my armchair, with a smoke rolled and available. This means I’ll have to go to their office. No comfy chair. No tv on to distract me visually. No rolled J ready for when I can’t take it.

Better make that appointment for a weekend….I might be really torn up. Where do you want to fucking start? Rapes? Abusive lovers? My narcissistic mother? My bully of a sister? My eldest brother who “loves” me? How I was ignored? My dreams? My anxiety? My nightmares? My body image problems? Take your fucking pick.

Psychic Surgery

Almost cheated yesterday. Almost. Came this close. I didn’t; feels like I passed a milestone. So for now, no more count unless I slip up or cut down more.

More and more I want to rent out the pool. Swim all by myself; get those slow pokes out of my lane and the fast jack-asses who make too many waves ’cause they think they swim well when they don’t out too. A real swimmer once told me a GOOD swimmer can swim with little to no wave splash….I’d like to tell one particularly muscle bound dude that. His arms are like jack hammers, and when they come down in the water they make a big splash. Somedays (like yesterday) it seems I’m the only one who’s willing to put their face in the water….everybody else doggy paddles. Two ladies in my lane were so slow I did nothing but FLOAT after them. The pull in the water from a few people swimming the same direction was enough for me to keep up with them…were they moving at all? Not what I’d call swimming.

Back in the water today. My suit is probably still damp. I’ll have to reign in my natural enthusiasm; supposed to meet up with my friend from class and be social, so no whole-hog swim for half an hour after class. She can’t do that, so she ends up getting out of the pool and just waiting for me. I feel a bit rude about that, so I’ll cut back when we socialize.

I’ve also got THINGS to do.

One off my list: walked into the doc’s yesterday and made an appointment to get the referral letter to Addiction Central. Hoping my GP will pony up more info about the place before I walk into goddess only knows what. I don’t need to go there and hear only Dutch; I’ll freak, ’cause I still don’t know a lot. I don’t need to go there and be told this or that; I’m clear on my smoking: I like it. The only reason I’m cutting back is for the fucking counseling place. Well, that and my pocketbook…

Gonna go and see Ben tonight…Stepping way out of my comfort zone with this one. Trying to play it off nonchalant. Oh, take the metro deep into the city, then catch a bus I’ve never noticed on a street corner I don’t know, get off 10 stops later in a part of the city I’ve never been to, find his new place, and THEN be social…I’ve got a 7.5 going on my anxiety meter over this, which in all probability will raise to a 9.3 before I ring his doorbell. My only reply to his suggestion, which came as soon as I signed into Facebook yesterday morning, was ‘Sounds good’. No it doesn’t. It doesn’t sound good at all. It sounds fucking scary. Any other city and I’d be making a pre-trip this afternoon to figure out where his new place is…But Rotterdam is well mapped, and the people are pretty friendly. Like I’ve said, I haven’t felt afraid on the streets of this city. Alone at night on a dark path with a group of strangers around: no fear. Haven’t got that vibe. Hope I never catch it in this city. Still, a lot of opportunities to get lost tonight. A lot of opportunities to feel vulnerable. And THAT’S before I even get to his place. Then it’s just him and me, no party to distract either one of us. I’m grateful to Ben this morning; he told me he still doesn’t have his new place organized and asked me to help him tonight. I feel weird about it; it sounds kind of weird. Help you organize your place? I’m not your mom or your sister or your girlfriend. How am I gonna help you organize? But I can’t help thinking that he suggested it to take the pressure off me, so I didn’t think we were gonna sit on the couch and play keep the octopus away all night. This WILL give us a distraction, something to do around talking to each other and getting to know each other better. It also makes me feel a bit more comfortable because I can go there in my sweat pants and t-shirt; we’re organizing. Gonna get some dust on me somewhere. Point is, I don’t feel I have to dress up or look a certain way. Gotta admit I’m curious; if he did all this on purpose he really shows a deep insight I didn’t expect. If it’s all chance…well, Universe, what am I supposed to be paying attention to? You can’t be serious…He’s half my age…

?

For the first time in a long time, the question mark is truthful. Questioning all of it…Do I really not want a relationship? Could I get past all my issues with sex? And age?

…I’ve stumped myself, and the only answer is to see how it goes. Play it slow. Get to know him better, let him know me better. See if we have something in common other than this attraction to each other. Goddess, am I even really attracted to him, or is it just because he’s paying attention to me? There’s another question I don’t know the answer to, and I need to find out.

Certainly dating a non-smoker would support my smoke-free lifestyle.

Don’t know that I want to open this can of worms. Relationships are complicated. I’m barely able to make friends right now, do I really want the distraction?

STOP!!! Fucking stop it, head. I’m not fucking there yet. It’s only 7 a.m. and YOU’RE shooting off to some foggy, unknown time in the future when I have to really come up with an answer. Tonight is an exploratory journey; that is all. Think of it as a little psychic surgery: I’m gonna open up my anxiety and dive in, see how much has metastasized. I do not need to do anything in particular. I’m gonna go and help a friend, that’s all, so fuck off with all the rest of it. We’ll have a beer, I’ll put his books on a bookshelf or some such shit, and that’s it. Talk. I don’t even know what Ben’s job is, for fuck’s sake. Or his last name. Hells bells, he told me more about his sexual history than anything else. Now he’s gotta tell me who he REALLY is. Yeah. Tell me who you really are, Ben. Don’t distract me by kissing me; pony up the truth, and I’ll do the same.

And that’s what I’m nervous about…

Rubbery

Yesterday’s count: 4. Climbing the walls between smokes, but I’m doing it. When I no longer have to watch the clock because time just ticks too slow between my smoke breaks, I’ll stop posting my daily count. I’m getting close. A few more days of this and I may go past my smoke times without realizing it.

Museumpark, Rotterdam

Sunday could have been a day out of a film. Out of the house before noon (will I ever get over the surreal act of leaving the house BEFORE noon? I doubt it). Metro down to Museum Park (very inventive name – not). A slow stroll through that picturesque place, perfected in early autumn rains. Then cerebral feed: eat this, brain. I can’t say I was overwhelmed by any of the art I saw, but I read (the museum was bilingual with Dutch AND English) and I looked and I thought. Well, there was one installation that really caught my eye, that made me sit down near it for 20 minutes. It was a refrigerator full of beer with a bottle opener hanging nearby and a sign asking me to please, help myself to a beer and sit down and talk art and life and politics. So I did. My bro and I were the only ones, at least when we went through the installation. It was fun, and weird, and wonderful – everything I like about Rotterdam. Beer in the museum. FREE beer. Had anywhere in Ireland tried to run that, the ‘fridge would be emptied every half hour and the place would be littered with alcoholics. I’ll say it again: the Dutch are terribly civilized.

My feet and the exhibits just couldn’t last for 6 hours. We split after 3 hours and headed for a bite to eat at my favorite Turkish restaurant. Turkish tea and Turkish pizza (what a great lunch!) gave me enough time to rest my tootsies before heading off to Media Markt to pick up some DVDs for home entertainment. In the end, I opted for the entire Deep Space 9 series. It was 7,569 minutes of watching – not a film or tv series in the place could rival it for entertainment time v price. It’s the only Star Trek that dared to go beyond the pat formula and try bigger stories. Too bad they didn’t have good enough writers on staff to really do it. Could have taken Star Trek out of the Dark Ages of tv early. Instead, we all had to wait for the re-boot (which I love).

With all the rainbows and streamers and prancing unicorns yesterday, I didn’t experience one moment of anger or irritation. That’s great, but I can’t spend cash like that every day. Nor can my feet do all the walking. It IS nice to get out and act ‘normal’ – and I mean that in every sense of the word. Normal like I CAN walk for 4 hours and not be so stiff. Normal like I have an extra €5 to sit down and enjoy a bite to eat without screwing up my budget for the rest of the month. Yeah. Yesterday was a little break from my tight-assed life of don’t smoke, don’t spend money, don’t hurt yourself, and a world of other ‘don’ts’. I just was, and I smiled.

Today I’m looking down the periscope of a long week with a lot of work in it. Seems like an awful lot when I look at it that way. Seems like my weekends have become these little blips in my work weeks. *sigh* Where has my freedom gone? I know what I’m doing is good for me….Just my stubbornness rearing its head.  But really! I feel too full of Dutch most days and wonder if I’m moving too fast – my brain is confusing simple stuff now. Not good; doesn’t help that my instructors keep piling on work – here, read this book and go to this website for more drills and are you sure you’re watching Sesame Street every night? cause there’s a lot of good kids programs on and you might want to try watching the news and reading the papers as well. AAAAAAAAARGH!

My brain on Dutch

Other than this blog, I’ve written jack shit. I have one story beginning – about 4 paragraphs – sitting unfinished and with question marks ???? all over the title because I don’t even know what to call it. I haven’t gone back to music because. Just because; I don’t have a good reason why not. Too lazy, too tired, too restless – all that works. Fill the blank in yourself. I can’t dilly-dally too much longer on this; I really DO have to get back to music and do some more producing. Time moves forward on me whether or not I feel it, whether or not I like it.

Right now, I’m just thankful I’m not a big processed meat eater. If I felt I had to change one more thing about my life I’d implode.

I have decided to buy a curling iron to play with my hair. As I’ve been smoking less, I’ve been more and more ashamed of my tatty appearance. I want to look nicer, and one way I can do that is to do something with my hair other than let it go wild. My hair has a certain style even when I do nothing. It’s always had a mind of its own. But swimming makes it frizz out a bit and misbehave (actually, it’s the hair dryers at the pool that just blast out air; can’t style at all). So I’ll get something I can play with and arrange Shirley Temple curls all over my head. That’s what it’s gonna look like before I brush it – Shirley Temple. The natural curl in my hair means I super curl when I use a curling iron – ringlets all around. I’ll get some mousse and gel, too.

Maybe I’ll even buy some make-up.

Don’t freak: I’m not changing into a Barbie doll. These have been long term goals of mine: to look a bit better, dress a bit better, act a bit better. And let’s face it: if I’m ever really gonna go back into the club scene, I need a bit more than my sweat pants, bare face, and frizzy hair. I need to get back to clubs to check DJs and the set-ups; hear what’s being laid down and see the equipment they’re working on. If they’d let me sneak in the back door and observe, I would. I gotta go thru the front, so I gotta look the part a bit. I just don’t want to go too overboard…No need for that. Even if I could pull it off.

This next phase in my life is gonna be more social. I can tell; all this is leading to it. Still don’t know if I’m ready to try the world again. I like my snug little nest at home with my writing and blogging and music. It’s comfortable. And going out there is risky in so many ways. I’m worried about that. Worried about the attention I’ll draw to myself, worried about my social-fueled mania and my chameleon ways. I haven’t formulated the new me yet; she’s still in flux. Go out too soon and she’ll get ruined. Wait too long and she’ll become brittle and break easy. Gotta do it just at the right time. Gotta be a rubbery…

Get down, get funky

You Want It; You Got It

Yesterday’s count: 4

I am so very proud of myself for getting thru Saturday without becoming a chimney. It gives me hope; if I can sit at home in the rain all day long and only smoke 4 J’s, I can tackle this. Eventually. It’ll take some time, but I can do it.

Ran around yesterday doing 20 minutes of this and 30 minutes of that. Did a lot of things half-assed; the house got cleaned – kinda. Hoover, dust, did the mirrors and sinks – but all quick. Didn’t reach too hard to get rid of that dirt. I thought ‘good enough’ even as I zipped through everything. Bored, bored, bored. Tried computer games 4 or 5 times. Managed to get about half an hour each time before I thought ‘this is stupid’ and went on to something else.

The triple B threat: Bored Beyond Belief

My up and down and back and forth was the reason my brother suggested we go to a museum today. Been here over a year now and I haven’t really gone to any museums yet. Just money, you know? That €24 for the both of us to get in buys groceries for a week. But, being b-day month AND having a few extra bucks in the checking account (I don’t know how my bro managed it, but he did) we’re heading off to the Kunsthal today, which is the big museum in Rotterdam. As long as my feet don’t poop out on me, I’ve got a potential 6 hours there today. 6 hours safely away from smoking. Six hours just rambling, looking at art installations. Love it.

Find myself getting angry at the counseling center a lot. Find myself telling them in my head they can all fuck off for blithely stating I must get off marijuana for 30 days before beginning with them. That what they did is no way to build trust. That they really need to get their heads out of their asses and THINK before doing this to another person. That they know jack shit about me, and to make a knee jerk reaction statement like that is ludicrous. I expect my temper to simmer down a bit…got more than 30 days ’cause as we all know, I haven’t quit yet. Still….I have to see my GP about that referral letter, and I think she’ll hear about it. She doesn’t deserve my anger, so if I can’t say it calmly, I won’t say it at all. But I need to raise objections NOW. I’m not sure what the thinking behind all of this is, unless it’s that smoking CAN actually help with all my problems/symptoms, and they want to see me as un-medicated as possible to really asses me. If they’d said that, I could deal. They didn’t. They just intimated that smoking was bad and I needed to stop. And this from a society that’s cool with it. Hells bells.

My personal choice is to be so high all the time that I never come down. Any shit anybody wants to throw at me about how smoking makes you dumber or less active or WHATEVER – I can counter. Maybe it works that way on the average monkey. It doesn’t do it to me. Dumber? Explain my IQ results – all tests in the last 10 years have been taken while imbibing. Less active? Oh, honey! I NEED to be less active most days and can’t achieve it. Poor memory? Fucking test me. I’ll blow you away. Covers up emotions? HA! I WISH. I’ll cry a little less, rant a little less on marijuana but I’ve never STOPPED. Weight gain due to munchies? Please, sister, that’s simple mind over matter and I tackled THAT one 25 years ago.

The only valid reason in MY book to stop smoking is to help with my health: to lower my allergic reactions, to ease my non-stop sinus problems, and to prevent future lung disease. Don’t talk shit to me about anything else. Grrrr.

Apologies…nothing focuses your mind on one thing like trying to abstain from it.

And I gotta say…quitting while NOT beating my body is quite a juggling act. Once again, my saving grace is my brother who is keeping a close watch on me (What did I do to deserve him? I don’t know. Must have been something good, as the song goes.). Doing my best to listen to his suggestions without snapping his head off…which is getting hard. I was told to take it easy yesterday, to not tire myself out, because of the planned museum trip today. And I had a mini-aneurism while working on spreadsheets; just couldn’t get the formatting to work properly and I blew up. The LAST thing I have right now is patience. If I thought the world moved too fucking slow before when I was high, it’s NOTHING compared to it now, when I’ve cut back. For fuck’s sake! At THIS rate, when I stop smoking entirely you’re not even gonna be able to SEE me without a slo-mo camera shot ’cause THAT’S how fast I’ll be going. Goddamn! I’ll become a humming-bird: you’ll hear me humming some inane tune as I whip by, but you won’t see me moving.

Fly, my pretty!

Paradoxically, sleep hasn’t been too bad. I’m able to stay down for 7 hours and sleep pretty well. Not great; still waking up multiple times to look at the clock and see if it’s time to get up yet. But I can doze off, that’s for sure. And I know what will be said, the same thing the docs have said to me all this fucking time: IF I CAN SLEEP 7 HOURS I’M NOT MANIC. Yeah. Right. Come live in my fucking skin for a day. Feel what it’s like to want to crawl out of it. No concentration. No fucking patience to even contemplate fucking concentration. This isn’t some form of mania?

Getting to the point of saying WHATEVER, which in my book is another way of saying FUCK OFF. I’ll go to the fucking addiction clinic (whatever). I’ll talk to my GP (whatever). I’ll get off marijuana for 30 days (whatever). I’ll go to the REAL fucking counseling clinic (whatever).

And they’re all gonna have to deal with my fucking attitude. Cause, reaction. Simple equation, people. Piss me off and watch what happens. Maybe that’s what they want. Maybe they want to see me on the edge. They ain’t gonna like it. Hospitalization may be suggested. There’s a fucking good reason I’ve been smoking as much as I have been for the last fucking 30 years of my fucking life. If you want to see THAT come out, well, you’re doing all the right things. Just keep on triggering me. Go on. I fucking dare you, motherfuckers.

For the past few months I’ve been feeling pretty good. I’ve even passed by watching horror films for lighter material (in my book, even serious dramas tend to be lighter than horror). But I’m feeling the need for mayhem and death, and I’m guessing horror is gonna become a regular thing for me again. Nothing pumps me up like a good Romero zombie film or one of the Alien films…or Resident Evil films…So many good horrors! To both fight the horror AND embrace it at the same time…That’s where I’m at. One fucking bad-ass warrior.

Try it….just try it.

You want it; you got it.

In Sync

Yesterday’s count: 4 joints

Determined to continue posting my consumption rate until I feel confident enough to go day to day all by myself. Right now, you guys are my sounding board, wailing wall, and most importantly my table of truth, so I’ll continue to post and keep me on the straight and narrow (shit. Straight and narrow. Sounds boring, doesn’t it?) by a little self-shaming. If I do bad, I gotta own up to you guys. Maybe not the best way to climb out of this, but hey! Whatever the fuck works right now. Something is working. I’ve rolled my first spliff for the day but I don’t want to light up….When I light up, that means I’ve got to get through the rest of the day with only 3 other Js to smoke, and I do SO want to smoke. *sigh*

Restlessness has been as bad as I feared. Very little can keep me occupied for any length of time right now. My whole play time on video games lasts a whopping 20 minutes before I feel bored out of my fucking skull. Movies better be really fucking good, or I’ll yawn and fidget through everything. I’ve finally found a charity shop here in Rotterdam, a place where I can buy second hand clothing, which is GOOD because I gotta go and get some more €2 pairs of pants because I won’t stop rubbing my fucking legs in nervous anxiety and all my stuff is wearing down and looking bad. My bro offered extra b-day cash for me to buy a NICE outfit, but I said no – until I lose the excess weight and stop with all these nervous habits, I’m gonna stay in my cheap clothes. Rub the pants legs on €2 pants, not €50 pants. I’ll feel just as fat and out of place in the €50 outfit as I do the €5 outfit right now. Keep me on the cheap.

The whole day is stretched in front of me without any appointments to take me out of the house. Gotta rectify that one. Saturday is relatively easy, at least compared to the dog day of the week, Sunday. Goddess save me from Sundays. I think Sunday should be abolished, and its time should be doled out to the rest of the days of the week. I’d much rather have a 30 hour Monday thru Saturday than a 24 hour Sunday. And I think I’d like 30 hour days. Let me really run until I get tired. Really tired, not my usual ‘oh, it’s getting close to bed time so I’d better think about sleeping’ tired. Bleh. I don’t even live the life to have my days the way I want them. There was a day I let myself go and to hell with the rest of the world. I want a 30 hour day; I GOT a 30 hour day. Every night/day, go to bed later. Wake up at odd times. It’s fine until you’ve got to interact with the real world. Then it’s hell. Studies have been shown this whole 16 hours up and 8 hours asleep doesn’t work for people, yet we still adhere to it like some outmoded fucking fashion of our parents. Whip ourselves into a semblance of ‘awake’ or ‘asleep’ according to a ticking clock rather than our bodies.

Is it any wonder we’ve all gone mad?

Doing all I can to just ride this out. Make it ok to tackle things 20 minutes at a time. Get something done, move on. Just keep treading the water. Telling myself I’ll find that new rhythm. Hope I’m not lying to myself. Feels like I am. But then, I’m very aware of a big part of me that doesn’t want to do any of this, doesn’t want to go to counseling or stop smoking or tell the truth. She just wants to go like I’ve been doing, and she’s screaming at me that it’s worked so far for us, why are we abandoning the only way we know how to do things? I tell her I want to think outside the box. She asks, what box? And I shake my head at her. That’s HER problem: she doesn’t even recognize she’s in a box. She likes her box, and wants to keep it.

Box: another word for cage. If I let out my arthritis-maimed tiger (thank you, Andrew, for that little phrase; it works so well!), what’s gonna happen? She may be old, she may be in pain, but let me tell you – she’s still able to be deadly. Has she learned anything yet? Enough to be my bodyguard and follow MY lead, rather than her own? Most importantly: have we learned to trust each other yet? I guess my own ambivalence should tell me the answer to that, and if I’m having a hard time trusting her, I’m sure she’s feeling the same way about me. Any time one of us has taken the lead, we’ve lead the other into shit. We have to work together…

The Ombudsman of Beeps must take control. There have been very few times in my life when ALL of me has been behind anything I do, and right now I’ve got to get all of us lined up together. I need a unified front; dissent must be put aside.

It is November. A google showed me *cringe* the truth: we’re IN a planetary alignment right now. Man, I HATE being so in sync with the Universe.

Cold Turkey Sucks Ass

I am NOT not smoking. Too fucking upset, and even my brother has asked me to please, light up a joint and fucking calm down. I gotta rant about my fucking language course, so all you who don’t care, skip down past this next tirade.

Goddamn mother fucking bullshit fuckers in fucking class! For fuck’s sake, there were three goddamn fucking talkers in class who WOULDN’T SHUT THE FUCK UP the whole fucking class. Had to put my fucking finger in my goddamn fucking ear just to shut them out a bit to hear the fucking instructor. THEN the people near me had to get in my fucking face to tell me (1) NOT to use my little paper name ‘plate’ – which we ALL asked to do and USE so everybody could fucking remember everyone else’s fucking name – because it wasn’t fucking COOL to have it up and open and then (2) that I wasn’t supposed to move ahead and fucking fill the fucking answers in below a certain fucking point while still in fucking class. Goddamn mother fuckers anyway!!! One thing I’m learning how to say – PERFECTLY – by tomorrow morning is ‘fuck off’ (which is basically ‘rot op’) and hold your mouth (‘hou je bek’) because if I hear that shit again I am standing up and reading them the fucking riot act. I am NOT going to class to listen to your goddamn inane little fucking conversation. I’m here to fucking learn, and if you’re so fucking advanced that you can sit there and TALK in fucking class because you don’t fucking need to learn what’s being taught, then maybe you should get the FUCK out of class and leave those of us who want to fucking learn fucking ALONE! Goddamn!

One thing the fucking counseling center will hear about is my fucking anger… Anger at them for fucking blowing me off, anger at the fucking WORLD for being so fucking shitty. No fucking surprise I want to fucking toke all fucking day long if you’re all going to be ASSHOLES. What, you think you can pull that shit and I WON’T be angry? Sorry, I don’t drink your fucking water so I don’t get the fucking prozac you so obviously dose the rest of the fucking populace with. People were close to DYING today by my fucking hand. I’m fucking smoking; fuck you and fuck you.

GRAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!!!!!!!!

And I did SO well yesterday.

Pft. But then, yesterday I had my computer class – not too challenging, like the class this morning. Then it was downtown to see ‘Spectre’ and have a good meal. A happy day, with no stressors I couldn’t handle and plenty of play time. That made it much easier to avoid smoking, and I made it through all day with less than 3 joints (compared to an average of 7). In other words, GOOD FUCKING PROGRESS. I’ll try to match it today, at least. Keep it down. Shit.

My morning began with an early swim; 7 a.m. I was in the water doing my first lap. I felt every step I took yesterday in my legs, and the first 20 minutes I was dying, as I always am in the pool. But I am a creature of endurance, and it’s epitomized in my swimming: first 20 minutes I huff and puff and struggle, next 20 minutes I find my rhythm, and from there…I don’t know that I need to stop. I got thru the huff and puff stage this morning as well as a leg cramp when some a-hole just had to horseplay in front of me and forced me to pull up mid-stroke. Then out, dry my hair and get dressed, walk back home to drop my wet stuff off, and metro into class. Pretty non-stop. All in all, I think I need to swim after class, not before. I don’t really like that; the pool gets dirtier and cloudier by the hour. And more people to deal with the later it gets. But I don’t see the non-stop push I did this morning doing me any good in the long run. Too aggravating.

Ok, ok, ok. I think I see a possible problem. I’ve been medicating myself with marijuana. Why am I not treating it like an anti-depressant and slowly taking down the amount I smoke? I should be; I should WEAN myself off, not go all cold turkey. If that means the counseling center doesn’t see me before next year, so be it. I’ve lived this way all my life, I can do for a few more months. It’s more important to me to keep up with my progress so far (which I’ve done while toking; take that motherfuckers) than it is to quit immediately. [Status update: I’m 3/4 of the way thru my joint, and the anger has dropped.] Alright. I’m revising my goal. I’m gonna ask myself to take my smoking down to 3-5 J’s a day right now. That’s a drop, but a small enough drop I shouldn’t become a bezerker. Do that for 2 weeks. Then take it down again. Keep doing it until I can go without.

Cold turkey sucks ass.

I will also make use of my brother’s offered ativan (yeah. I was REALLY bad.). A quarter of a tab on a day like today will quench the anger long enough to relax. As he pointed out, the counseling center doesn’t have the same problem with something like ativan as they do marijuana – which seems weird to me, but there you go. I ain’t gonna be popping pills willy-nilly since they’re not mine to begin with, so I guess that’s ok. Oh, fuck it if it’s not! And fuck them if they give me shit for it. They don’t have to walk in my shoes. Only I can say when it’s too much, and I think the space I was in just a short J’s worth ago pretty much said it was TOO MUCH. I keep having reactions like that and either someone is gonna really die, or I’ll have a fucking aneurysm. *off I go to swallow said pill*

That was so small it’s hard to tell if I actually swallowed it.

…After all that, I have one positive thing I’ve held back to end on. Last year, I missed the first Hunger Games: Mocking Jay film. This year, the big finale is coming up – saw a trailer for it and man! it looks cool. So my brother played my b-day card and bought me the first part…Guess what I’m watching today? 😎