Choice

Yesterday, I chose to care about myself. Just a little bit.

Hauled back two heavy bags of groceries late morning. Noticed my ankle hurt a wee bit with every step. Didn’t matter how careful I was, how I placed my foot – when I stepped, there was an edge of pain. I was all fired up to go to the gym, to push, to not care. Dare I say it? To hurt myself. But the reality of that bit of pain with each step weighed on me. I sat in my bedroom, a large bandage in my hand all ready to wrap that damned ankle up, and suddenly my bad mood telescoped out into the future. I saw myself hurting my ankle – badly. Saw the weeks, the months down. Saw the just sitting there feeling like a fucking idiot on a thousand levels. And some quiet voice in me spoke up and asked, ‘Do you really want to risk sitting around and going even deeper into this for months due to injury?’

It was hard to say no. Because I wanted to hurt myself. That’s my thing: go to the gym and push my body until it breaks. And I suddenly realized it wasn’t about health or endurance, it wasn’t even about getting some endorphins going so my mood improved. It was about punishing myself.

Hating myself.

Self-flagellation comes in all forms.

Acceptance of the moment, my reasons, my self-hate, was the key to opening my mouth. I’d not said much to my brother up to that point; still in a hissy fit. But once I stopped and accepted what was going on with me, I communicated. And I found it easy to avoid angry communication. In fact, it wasn’t even part of the equation. My anger left me as soon as I realized what I was doing. I had no need to harangue my bro over his SIM game. He enjoys it; why should I spoil that for him? And I found no reason to nag about the housework, either. It never really takes that long to tidy up. No. I admitted to my bad mood, my twisted anger, my desire to hurt myself – and all that surface shit just slid away.

So I did not go to the gym, despite my angry ‘no matter what’ declaration yesterday. And I learned something. Thought it was only exercise that would release my anger in this fashion. But it isn’t. If I can get to the core issue and admit it, I can let it go without all the sweat and effort. That’s a big IF. Everest height. And it’s not a mountain I care to scale too often. I suppose I shouldn’t say that. It should be my goal to handle my mood swings in such a manner, right? Find the cause, accept it, move on. No acting out, no mad blog writing at 5 a.m. But I am comfortable with my old methods, with the exercise push and mad writing, the slamming of doors and gut-churning anger. …How utterly sad to say that. I’m fucking used to such horrors.

…I’m fucking used to being such a horror.

Ah! I was going to say I see my sister in all this – the acting out, the hissy fits, the slamming doors. I do see it, and I do hate it. But I also realize now what’s probably at the base of my sister’s actions. Self-hate. Makes me have a drop of empathy for her this morning.

Could we just stop with the epiphanies? Just for a little while? This hyper awareness…I welcome new levels of understanding, but hey! You’ve got to give me time to digest one bit of info before shoveling a new load into my head. Feels like there’s just too much to grasp, too much to know, and as soon as I get a hold of one idea something else loosens and gets away from me…

It’s like learning Dutch. If I concentrate on the correct verb and sentence structure, I’ll get the verb tense wrong. If I think too much about the verb tense, I’ll screw up the syntax. I can’t seem to hold all that info in my brain at once. I know it’s a matter of practice. Go slow, go steady, and keep trying.

But although I suffer embarrassment over my poor language use, I do not have to go through emotional turbulence over every little word. Setting out to change the way I think…now that’s difficult. I get triggered left and right, have to stop and sort myself out, fight against the depression, reign in the mania…it’s bloody exhausting. There’s no manual out there for this, no instruction booklet to make things easy. What I would give for a big Book of Life with easy to read chapters and answers in the back!

For now, I’m choosing to care about me. It’s not a choice I’m comfortable with. Not. at. all. But I am more afraid of months down, unable to get out or do much of anything, than I am of carrying some extra weight on my body or feeling guilty from missing a day at the gym. Until I can take a step without pain, I’m choosing to be careful. Choosing to not push. Choosing to not hurt myself.

I can do this. I can learn to take care of myself.

It’s a choice.

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Self reliance

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Life is shit: Day 2.

I had a good long time yesterday to figure out if my bro asking me earlier this week to meet his comic-geek buddies or his forgetting he even asked and just leaving the house was worse. The balance tips, depending. Right now it’s on the worse side, as in addition to simply being forgotten I’ve now got a load of other shit on my back that feels like everything that’s being said is no, I really don’t give a shit about you. I know this is my skewed perception mixed with poor communication. I KNOW that. Doesn’t feel better.

Made myself leave the house yesterday. Went to a bookshop downtown to search out these ‘holy grails’ of Dutch my new teacher is pushing at me. Found them. Looked thru them. As soon as I saw ‘subjective infinitive’ and similar terms I put them back on the shelf. Nothing there I don’t already have in half a dozen other books – as I suspected. My eye wandered down the shelf and there I saw the book my last teacher told me to buy. I picked it up and spent the money without hesitation; I TRUST my last teacher. I do not trust my current teacher. And I realize that, more than anything, is my problem: I don’t trust him. I don’t trust what he says, I don’t trust his recommendations, I don’t trust his answers. Not only do I think he doesn’t know what he’s doing, I think he doesn’t care.

I’ve got plenty of not caring in my life right now. Don’t need an additional hour and a half of it each week.

Spent an hour watching SpongeBob Squarepants in Dutch. Felt pretty good about myself as the more I listened, the more I caught. I’m getting it, I thought. Then I received a phone call about volunteering for this local festival and the dude must have used every single fucking word I don’t know. Had to ask for English, and by the end of the short conversation my language confidence went right thru the floor. The rest of the night and this morning I’ve felt I’m just never gonna get it. It’s too much. I’m too stupid. A part of me keeps telling myself that it’s the work I’ve been doing on my own that has caused so many people to tell me I speak well and they’re amazed I’ve only been studying for a year. I CAN do it. Maybe my progress will be slow. Maybe I won’t do it the way other people do it. But I can learn it.

Can’t convince myself of either side of that argument. I’m just ping-ponging back and forth.

Today is loaded with work I hate to punish myself. Not gonna mince words about it; the days I hate myself most are the days I clean with a fury. My dad used to tell me I was work horse and what do work horses do? Drop dead in their tracks working, that’s what they do. I don’t burn myself, I don’t cut myself. I work. Hard. And I don’t stop until I DO hurt myself.

Oh, fuck you, fuck you, and fuck you! You being anyone who judges me over that behavior.

At least I can admit it. And do my best to NOT act on it. But I’d be lying if I said my cleaning sprees are anything other than a way to self harm.

Well, that’s an ugly truth. As with most things right now, it’s not sitting comfortably.

Having a very difficult time clearing my head enough to do anything. I feel stuck. Everything is telling me about this horrible self image I have of myself: fat, old, loud-mouthed, ignorant, unattractive, acidic, angry, and simply not nice. And yes, take that and make sure I don’t become it. Use the lessons learned to be something different. But my insecurities make it hard, and the more I worry the more difficult it becomes to not act out, not strike in anger, not become that which I hate most.

I’m not drowning yet, though. For every hit I take, I’m still getting up and trying again – though my recovery time lengthens with each punch. That worries me. The fact that it’s getting harder and harder to just keep trying. But, you know, sunshine and lollipops. Shifting my focus from the punches to every time I stand back up. Or trying to.

Finding the inner peace to move forward when it seems like everything is piling against you is a struggle that words can’t express. Every single time I’m here I remember that. Every adage I’ve ever spouted comes back to haunt and taunt me.

This. is. temporary. Do I hear myself? It will pass. Your learning curve will take another jump. Your bad self image will fade and be replaced by something stronger. Right now we’re in that place where we can’t see any progress. It’s scary. Damned scary. But we are making progress because right now just continuing is all the progress anyone could ask for. Don’t give up on me. Don’t give up on us.

The promises we make to ourselves are the most important of all to keep. And of all the things happening right now in my life, it is the promise to myself to keep going that is NOT temporary, NOT shifting. I like myself; I hate myself. I feel good; I feel lousy. But thru it all there is one line of steel, one thing I keep falling back on time and again: my promise to myself to keep slogging thru. No matter what.

Time is temporary, shifting. Circumstances change. People come and go. Policies shift. Friends betray each other, lovers fall out of love. My emotions may never be stable.

I, however, continue. I am the one constant in my life, my own Northern Star.

Time to rely on me.

FIRED!

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What the fuck am I doing here?

By 5 p.m. yesterday, that was the only question on my mind. And for once it had nothing to do with existentialism and my place in the Universe, and everything to do with the very real walls of Addiction Central.

Yoda either suffered a concussion or went out back to blow a joint before our appointment. He interrupted me several times, cutting me off mid sentence. He forgot that I make music and write, and he seemed to completely space that last time he asked me for my web address to check out some of my work. Our time was short. He kept me waiting for 20 minutes and then just took it off my appointment; at a maximum we spoke for 40 minutes. Yoda took more time trying to remember some funny films from Woody Allen and the Coen brothers than he did acknowledging anything I told him. I was told I’d want sex again, and my statement about the abusive ex-turned-stalker was literally waved off by Yoda’s hand.

Maybe I should have nicknamed him Groucho instead.

No testing was done. Bipolar and ADHD were not mentioned. I was told to keep seeing Heike. I said, ‘So…that’s it? Just see Heike and cut back on smoking?’ (The ONLY thing Yoda was consistent on was his opinion that I should not quit smoking, just cut back.) He responded yes, that’s exactly what I should do and Heike could set up an appointment with him if I needed one in the future.

I’m still in shock. Yoda didn’t even remember I was 50 years old, which a quick look at my file would have told him.

Oh, the echoes of family harm have been strong since! I’m being ignored, forgotten, brushed aside, dismissed. All because I’m the problem child, a freak, hysterical, out of my head, crazy. No, wait. I’m not crazy; Yoda said yesterday ‘So you’re fine’ – a statement that elicited derisive laughter from me, but maybe that sarcasm got lost in translation. He certainly seemed to treat me like all I was was some dope head that needed to stop being in such a fog (as IF!).

While I kept remarkably calm through everything yesterday – and I did, I DID keep remarkably calm thru the whole thing – I couldn’t sleep last night without taking an Ativan, despite my shorted sleep the previous night. 20 hours up without a nap or rest and I said fuck it. My eyes were dry, I was yawning and tired, but my head couldn’t shut off. I took it for me and I took it as a fuck you to Yoda and Addiction Central.

I SAID a lot depended on my visit with Yoda. And it did. I just didn’t realize how many things depended on that visit until I was shown the door and sent on my way in a cloud of bewilderment.

Today is Saturday, not a day to dick around with the health system that largely runs Monday thru Friday. Come Monday, though, I’m marching over to my huisart’s office and getting a double appointment with her. While my mental health is not her forte, she does have the last word in my health care in general. She needs to hear about what’s been going on; the cancellations, the back and forth, and now the complete dismissal by Yoda. I’ve thought all night about this one, and my decision is that I will not go back there. Come Monday I’m canceling my appointment with Heike. That makes me a bit sad; I just got thru a host of problems with her and had real hope that we were going to start working as a team. But I will not – EVER – go to see Yoda again. I will not sit in the same room as a man who blows off with a casual hand flip any woman, including me, who says the word ‘rape’. Not again. Forget it.

It’s tough to not want to hurt myself today. Push myself until pain comes. I feel like I deserve it. The treatment I received yesterday is reinforcing that feeling for me, and my anger over the issue is mixing with my self loathing to the point that I am in danger. Very much so. Sitting still will be a challenge.

One joint smoked and like I give a fuck today how many I puff down…

I figure there are three possible outcomes I’m looking at. The first is that I’ll get on the waiting list for Addiction Central’s northern clinic (I’ve been traveling an hour each way to go to the southern one) and begin the entire merry-go-round again, with new therapists and psychiatrists to deal with. The second is that I’ll get an appointment with the original center that demanded I ‘get clean’ for 30 days. I’m willing to do that, all on my own, but I want the appointment set up before I begin. I won’t get clean and then wait another 2 months while they dick me in the system. The third is I’ll say fuck off to the entire idea and keep limping thru my life as I’ve been doing. It was hard enough for me to ask for help in the first place. Took me 50 goddamn fucking years to do it, for christ’s sake!

And why the fuck was my file marked ‘urgent’ – which I KNOW it was because I was TOLD it was – and here I sit, still spinning around and getting NOWHERE? Something’s amiss in the land of bliss.

While I’m confused and angry, I am very proud of (1) the way I handled myself during the appointment and (2) the fact I quickly realized something was WRONG yesterday and did my best to not internalize it. Yes, I’ve taken some of it in. This is the first time I’m trying to do this, to see what really happens, to hear and smell and feel the triggers and know that they’re triggers, and not buy into it. I defended myself well yesterday. Yes, that defense looked a bit like retreat into myself; I said less and less to Yoda the more and more bizarre his behavior became. THAT was a wise fall-back. I kept myself safe and semi-distant from him, able to observe his behavior while suffering the fewest of his verbal and nonverbal shots at me.

I should not feel at war with my doctors.

Time to do what I’ve been dancing around: fire their asses and find someone else to work with.

Old Dog

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This is my kindness to myself this morning. I allowed myself to sleep for eight hours rather than the 5.5 I was heading for last night. No swimming. *gasp* Me, miss a Thursday morning swim? Things really are changing.

Sleep has never been more of a jack ass than he was last night. Once again, in front of the tv I barely managed to keep my eyes open. But as soon as I got in bed, forget it. I tossed. I turned. My head went into overdrive. Last night was extra extra (yes, there’s supposed to be two ‘extras’) special because just as I was beginning to drift off into peaceful bliss, some kids thought it was a good idea to try a few skateboard moves four floors directly beneath my bedroom window. Yeah. At 10:30 at night. By eleven I’d had all I could takes and I could takes no more. Up and out of my bedroom in a rage. Rolled, smoked, shared my frustration in a few acidic words with my brother who looked out the window to see….nothing, of course. They’d moved on as soon as I got up. Little bastards. Didn’t even give me an opportunity to go out there and yell at them in person. [Btw, I’m not against skateboarders in general. I’m just against them when they practice outside my bedroom window while I’m trying to sleep.]

While the experience was not something I’d like to repeat, I did learn something. I got angry at Heike. Properly, truly angry. Not for something she said or did, but because once AGAIN my appointment with her was cancelled. After winding me up about taking a ‘time out’, after the rudeness of the receptionist, the discounting of my emotions, she fucking cancelled on me. I suppose I should be grateful; at least THIS time the call came in BEFORE I was halfway there. But she’s back to even steven on seeing me vs blowing my appointment off.

I almost came out here yesterday afternoon to write a quick post about my fourth cancellation in the beginning of my therapy process because I wanted to ask Do you guys think I should be angry about this? I’m actually proud I got there myself, without any help or support from anyone else. Heike wants real emotions? Here’s one: you’re fucking dissing me every goddamn time you cancel, woman. And you’ve done it four fucking times without apology or explanation. I. deserve. to know. WHY. I also deserve a fucking therapist who’s not gonna blow me off.

Mommy, mommy, mommy. I’ll put this caveat in my words: if this whole thing was something cooked up between Yoda and Heike to push my mommy buttons, they’re doing a fucking great job. This was my mother from day one. Never knew if she’d be there or not. Never knew if she was going to pick me up or forget me. It was always about half and half. No stability, no safety, no foundation to build on. That was my mother’s child rearing style. Her job came first, always. And her unique position led her to be ‘on call’ for days at a time. That meant at the drop of a hat she’d be off. Hurt yourself? Better go and get the neighbor ’cause mom had to go to work. Christmas? Well, your father’s here. Go ahead and celebrate. Birthdays? – You get the idea. It happened so much that she’d often leave in the middle of the night, meaning I woke up to a babysitter or neighbor. Unexpected shit. I never did feel safe. No wonder I had recurring nightmares about my mother abandoning me.

I didn’t deserve that treatment as a kid, and I sure as hell don’t deserve it now.

After the phone call about the cancellation came in yesterday, I didn’t put down one check for any of the multiple Js I smoked. I know not putting those checks in is simple petty revenge on my part; don’t see me, I won’t be honest with you (so there!). And I over smoked. Those skateboarders put me into the 6 J range, one over my set ‘maximum’. …I’m staring at the damned thing right now. Put them in or not? Honesty or revenge? Where do I stand on this?

…Check, check, check. While Heike may not deserve my honesty right now, Yoda does. That’s why the extra Js just got marked. I’m angry at her, not him. He’s given me no reason to want revenge. And he needs the truth from me.

I am so geared up to pounce on Heike she actually might hear from me that I want another therapist. Yes, get me angry enough and the truth will come out. Right now I’m still bloody angry. Once again I have another whole week to think about how I’m going to say the things I feel will now UNDOUBTEDLY come out of my mouth. So glad I didn’t fall apart, didn’t think that yes, I really DID need hospitalization and need it now, that I didn’t need that ’emergency’ visit with Yoda. Because THAT’S what Heike risked by blowing me off yesterday. A complete meltdown on my side. How the fuck am I supposed to feel safe when that shit goes on?

Since anger is so THERE in me today, kindness is my word du jour. I’m sure I did myself a favor by not swimming this morning, despite the health and mind benefits. And I will continue to act with kindness towards myself; this is not my fault. I’m not wrong for being angry. This is not an occasion or reason to hurt myself thru over exercise. It’s not my fault.

As those words echo in me, I’m relaxing. It isn’t my fault that I feel unsupported. It isn’t my fault that I feel dissed. Yes, this has awakened my mommy stuff, and that’s old and very, very ingrained. But I’ve never been one to agree with the saying ‘you can’t teach an old dog new tricks’. Really? Stand back. This old dog’s gonna do something new.

Kind of Like Me

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Honesty is again the issue. Just go ahead and lie. Ach! Those were the words out of my brother’s mouth yesterday regarding smoking. I was working. Hard. Call me crazy but I think when you cram 6-8 hours worth of work into 2 you deserve a smoke. And smoking at that point yesterday would put me over my aimed for 4 Js. I dithered. I actually said ‘maybe I won’t include THIS one’ as I rolled. I didn’t make any note of it. And did it again in the evening.

I put the checks on my calendar this morning.

Give my subconscious time to do its thing and it’s amazing what can happen. I am clear on a few issues this morning. Not only clear, but ready to tackle them. I’m geared up to explain exactly why the receptionist at Addiction Central was a prick to me and how rude I found that engagement. On the heels of that impassioned speech (in my mind), I continue on to tell Heike how I don’t like her back and forth and that she really needs to get off my ass with the smoking. How her comment about my ‘real feelings’ was uncalled for and out of line. How for the SECOND time out of three visits I left feeling less together, less supported, and more angry.

Sometimes that vision includes saying ‘I don’t think this is working. I need a new therapist’. Sometimes not. The fact that I can imagine doing it at all means I’m gonna try for it. I’m going to try to be THAT honest with her. I don’t know that I’ll succeed.

I must take the time to acknowledge myself. I rip myself down all the time but rarely really support myself. Yesterday the extra Js and several hours of satisfying music-making chilled me out to the point I was READY to acknowledge myself. Rather than letting the air steal my words so I forget them, they’re gonna be immortalized here and now.

  1. However much everyone wants to think my smoking is out of control, I’m spending less than HALF what I did in Ireland. Part of that is due to the fact that smoke is so much more expensive in Ireland, part of it is due to the fact that I’m just smoking less. But every month, half of what I used to smoke away is getting put towards other uses. We’re climbing out of our financial hole.
  2. I’m communicating better with my brother. He no longer wakes up in fear of me pouncing on him the moment he enters the room because I’ve been wound up since 4 a.m. with no release.
  3. I am more mindful of my moods. My days now begin with an emotional report, kind of like the weather report. Unsettled sleep, tears while writing. Chances are it’s gonna be a bad day. Or Great sleep, already laughing at comments. I’m gonna do stuff. 
  4. My work has reached a new level. Everything is that bit better; my writing is stronger, my songs more catchy. I even LIKE what I do now.
  5. My years of pretending to be Superwoman are still affecting me; I’m tackling more things at once than most people would ever choose to do. Quitting smoking is just the tip of the iceberg. I’ve also been instilling better eating habits, better exercise, controlled relaxing (still don’t have the hang of it), and more attention to my personal appearance.
  6. However much I come out here and blow my top, I’ve not done that in public. Can’t even BEGIN to say how much of an improvement that is.
  7. I’m not hurting myself. I don’t go out and walk when I’m angry. That’s when I turn an ankle, or pop my knee, or whatever. Push my RA body until it breaks, that’s what I do. Right now that means sitting more – which is a challenge in and of itself. But until I learn how to walk while angry and NOT hurt myself, I sit. No self harm.
  8. I’m still being honest.

That’s a great list. None of it’s small stuff, none of it is easily blown off. Me from thirty years ago would have been blown away by Me now.

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And I’m learning Dutch.

DAMN, I’m good! Even when I can’t quite believe that of myself.

Tja! I so want to add something like ‘Now all I have to work on is -‘. What a negation. My bro said I juggle 24 balls at once and bemoan the 2 I let drop. He’s right on that. So let me add that all I really need to work on now is giving myself props for all the juggling I do. Pat myself on the back more often. Treat myself because, in the immortal words of L’Oréal, I’m worth it.

I’ve no idea what today holds for me. Not one inkling. I want the day to unfold organically, naturally. Let whatever comes, come. Walk a little slower, look up at the sky a bit more often. Smile. Take a break from my irritation. A cynic might quip that I’m in a much more mellow mood thanks to that bit extra smoke yesterday. *shrugs shoulders* Perhaps. I like myself better this way. I’m fully aware of that anger and irritation, just not touched by it right now. I’m in control, not the other way around. I can access it or let it go.

…My two gallons of homemade blackberry wine have been sitting near my desk since I put them up. One is now reacting violently; I had to put a pan underneath it because it was overflowing a bit. Most people who try to make wine get all the equipment, including those fancy tops that are designed to let out the gas while preventing the liquid from escaping. I’m neither that rich nor that fussy. I do it on the cheap, and just loosely cover the top with a bubble of transparent wrap from the store and secure it with a rubber band. So it overflows from time to time.

Kind of like me.

Yes, Virginia, You Can Kill Too Many Zombies and other disjunct thoughts

No headache….so far. Since crowing over NOT having headaches, I’ve suffered one every day. I’m also painfully aware the headaches began again as I started to use a difference perspective when looking at memories of my mother. Wish I could say the headaches were/are more than stress, but I can’t. *sigh*

I spend an inordinate amount of time playing games on my computer. Plants v Zombies is just one of those all consuming time killers for me. It’s fun, and the audio samples used are some of the best. I’ve been playing the same game for 2 years now, and I can saturate my brain so heavily with it that all I see and hear in my head are zombies creeping up on me, complete with moans and potato bombs ready to blow them up. Yes, Virginia, you CAN kill too many zombies.

Been watching Heroes (again) at night. Find myself wishing superpowers were real. Not for me. But I’d like to meet the Haitian. I’d like him to lay his hands on my head and rip out all my memories. I’d like to start again with a blank slate, just wake up in this body at this age and learn to deal with it WITHOUT all the decades of baggage I’ve been carrying around. I’d like to forget my mother, my sister. I’d like to forget all the bullies. I’d like to forget what it feels like to grow up fat, to obsess over every bulge in my body. I’d like to forget that as a child I’d be so paranoid at school that if a group of kids happened to laugh while I passed them in the hallway I was SURE they were laughing at me.

What’s it like to be normal? What are normal emotions like? For that matter, what’s it like to be in a normal body without rheumatoid arthritis? As far as I can tell I’ve had the damned disease most of my life.

I’ve never had the urge to cut myself or anything like that. I don’t self harm that way. I self harm through excessive exercise, which most people don’t catch because they think it’s healthy physically, they don’t see me every day with my obsessions over my weight, and they don’t realize how HARD I push myself some days just to walk without a limp. It’s how I punish myself – ate that cake? Do an hour hard walking. Had to have some ice cream? 30 sit ups every night for forever. I know it, I see it, and I just can’t stop. The best I’ve been able to manage is to moderate my self berating; to tell myself I MUST pull back in order to keep going in the long run.

Hate is a lovely, hard gem. It sparkles and draws my attention back to it time and time again. And when I’m in full blown hate I love to hate: it fires every neuron, it pumps blood to every vein, it imbues me with beserker qualities. I am powerful in my hate. I’m a steamroller of cynicism, a prophet of oblivion. My hate is a tornado tearing through my life and I love the destruction as it happens, I cheer the fall of all I know.

I looked FORWARD to the death of my mother. I was excited about it.

I don’t know for sure if I ever had sex without being drunk or high. I don’t think so. And sex for me was always violent, always hard. I enjoyed bondage. I wanted men to call me a whore or slut while they were fucking me. I wanted dirty talk. Sex was never about intimacy. It was about getting OFF – in the full sense of the word. The turning off of my brain and body. I didn’t orgasm with a partner until I was in my late 20s.

Having a very hard time lately knowing if I’m hungry or not. Rarely feel hunger. When I do, it strikes hard and leaves quickly, often without me eating. Most of the time I feel too full, even after a few bites. Struggling to eat a breakfast and an evening dinner every day. Still, the excess weight is clinging to me.

Hate my stretch marks. Got them growing up fat. Have them on my hips, upper arms, and thighs. They are physical reminders of my past…Maybe when I win the lottery I’ll get the damned laser surgery and be rid of them. Most days I think that even if I get reincarnated into another body (Goddess forbid!) I’ll have them resurface on THAT body because they’re so fucking ingrained in my BEING. Ugh.

Contemplating going grey. I’d have to have my hair dyed to do it; don’t have enough grey naturally. It can look fabulous. I just don’t know how fabulous I’d feel. Going grey at 20 makes a statement. Going grey at 50…oh, just ugh. I don’t know that I have the courage to do that.

Ok, something’s not coming out here. I can feel it behind my solar plexus.

Been trying on the label ‘depressed’ even tho I was set off by the last counsellor telling me that was my problem. Been thinking about dad, too. Been thinking about how depressed dad always was. Dad had two modes when I was little: cussing like an angry sailor or kind of sad and withdrawn. He rarely directed his anger towards me or any of his family. Usually he was ranting about the government or taxes or traffic. I remember dad spanking me once. I think I got one swap across the bottom. One was enough. Dad was my hero. Every night I’d climb into his lap to listen to his heart beat while he and mom watched tv. His laughter would rumble up through his chest. His stomach would make noises as he drank his evening diet root beer. I loved his smell and the strong comfort he gave me. I miss him so very much every day.

And now I’ve set myself off crying again. Time to go immerse myself in music and kill a few more zombies.