London, London (Christmas in July)

Here’s what I know:  I will enjoy the heck out of writing to you when and if you return.  If you don’t, well, it was a real pleasant learning experience about what I am emotionally capable of in a literary sense.  Here’s what I also know after Mr. Confusion, Mr. Rochester, and all the Misters in between…I have zero control over what you do.  Zilch.  No matter how I keen and sigh and refresh pages.  So.  Up it goes, into the boiling, hellish atmosphere to be as it must and shall.

Work has layers.  Sometimes and in some ways, utter chaos, complete implosion, infighting.  But I hear about these things, I never see them as everyone seems to laugh around me and this, in some ways as well, feels like gaslighting.  I never know what actually is beyond the fact that I freak out and end up assuaging the boss and talking about the future.  We just tramp right over the problems and say it will be fine and I think, more and more, that in and of itself is a big problem.   I throw myself over the fire and say I’m in it and then I get convinced for a while, but then, feel as though I have no idea where I stand.

So, I applied for a job.  Who knows.  I suppose that if I were, in the very unlikely event to get it, and if I were to take it, I would not find it possible to bitch here about it.  I said that before, though, and found my way.   Maybe that’s the only way to have success…to just keep throwing shit and see what sticks.  Not give two figs about the outcome.

Ah.

I am boiling over.  Broiling, cooking, squeaking, beeping.  Thinking.  Thinking about fear and how far I am willing to take things.  If the world opened up, where would I go.  What would I have?  There’s these instances of joy.  Of revelation, of overcoming obstacles.  Feeling sure I was going to panic while riding the elevator to the 28th floor, knowing the panic was because I hadn’t eaten and it was 3pm, knowing I was downtown where I always have panicky thoughts, not giving in.  Not turning around.  Handling it.  I’m quite proud of myself for that.

I sent my parents an email because I can’t seem to get over there at a time when they’re up so I just thought I’d make sure they knew that I wasn’t staying away out of some fearful reaction to the news.  That I feel disconnected, so I was re-connecting, regardless of what they’re likely not even momentarily questioning.  I was proud of that.

I needed gas in my car, and the agoraphobic tendency swelled around me, but I broke out into the much cooler and more pleasant out of doors and went and got it.  And a treat besides.  I needed to track down my college transcripts for this job application and I did.  A bear, a bother, but a point of pride that I didn’t give up even when I applied under the wrong listing and it said I was ineligible.  I pushed on this goofy, painful Monday and things will change a bit.

Until tomorrow, good friends.

 

 

 

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