Sometimes I am teased for my noises.
But it doesn’t matter, I have to make them anyway.
Another no good, very bad, what is going on with my juju these days? sort of workday. I’m doubting everything including the color of the sky or if winter will ever, to coin the now ubiquitous phrase, come. I feel wobbly and weak and there’s no place for wobbly and weak so out I will sweep it and draw in my wobbly and weak reserves of superpowered cojones and success tomorrow.
I don’t know that anything will do me any good. You ever just know that things are in motion that are well beyond you and maybe it’s going to pick you up and carry you somewhere…maybe home, maybe hell, but you’re not going to expect to be there when you arrive.
I don’t know that they like me very much and today was a bad day with no J. in it and me just bobbing about after getting cracked up against the fact that you can call it a new start all you want, but if you still have the old poison in the barrel…it’s going to be hard to pull out a good apple.
I spent two hours working tonight and still have the sensation that somehow a knife is going to slide out of my screen and gouge me in the head. Like today when I thought I had done well and I wrecked printers and forgot important meetings and tried and tried and tried and did not make it close to the summit. I just get more curt emails that I have to swallow up all of my sentiment and smallness and attempts at being outsized and just reply to. I want to be able to quit apologizing, but moving and not moving seem to be equally wrong.
So sometimes, when no one is around to hear, or I believe that no one is, I make a series of noises.
But what people don’t understand is that it is the sound of an idea running through me. The idea is sometimes one of venting the steam that seems to be about to burst my skull apart, ahisssssssssssh.
Sometimes the sound is one of delight, of giddy happiness to be thinking about something wonderful coming and it’s like a train, it has this plugging rhythm and I feel myself with it so it goes doo-chicka-doo-chicka-doo-chicka, like the soundtrack to an old black and white western, and my body will get real tight with excitement and my fingers will bend like weeping willow boughs, all twisted as I draw them skyward and contemplate while the sound goes how good it will be when whatever it is arrives full and intact.
Sometimes the sound is like it is tonight, sitting in bed with the fan on blast and the noise doesn’t have any rhythm or order and is both hsssssssssssssssssss and a series of intermittent clicks and it is the sound of me thinking about my mother’s cancer medicine working in her body, fighting against what is wrong and block-block-block-block-blocking it.
It is so strange, the impulses we have.
Right now, I really don’t want to write today’s post here. Not not write it at all, just not here. I am not going share it with my Twitter, though if anyone there wanted to read it, I imagine they could figure out how to get back here. It makes me feel really vulnerable to re-live it, but I also don’t want to let it drift into the background of my unconscious without being tagged with some words. Maybe as I write it I will feel differently.
It was two things. It was the guy and it was the panic.
My life is definitely spiraling in ways that are out of the bounds of any imaginable stretch of my comfort zone. As I dealt as best I could with the work that needed to happen on the last day we are in the office for 2016, I also was conversing with the dude of yesterday’s post. Real generally, real get to know you stuff spiked with this sort of testing the water sort of quasi-flirting business that was never uncomfortable, just, curious. It had, like he had, a different sort of vibration than I was used to. Someone who calls themselves weird and doesn’t have any pretense about covering it up or not being weird, but the weirdness all weirdness that I had reference for, that felt companionable to my own weirdness rather than self-protective.
So, having this pleasant conversation, I arrive as I did on Tuesday, at the bus stop and awaited my ride. My sister called and said she was there. On the opposite side of the whole freeway situation. This meant the walkover bridge. Fuuuuuuuuckaroonies.
The thought that I had done this on Tuesday had zero bearing. The fact that I was hungry and tired and wanted to be cool and sangfroid and keep talking to this guy had no bearing. The fact that a woman driving past saw me flipping my shit and asked me if I was okay had no bearing. I thought what if the panic returned and it did. It went for my throat. For 10 minutes, standing over the freeway. I was panic’s thrall. It was…bad.
When I say it was bad, I mean…bad with zero hyperbole. She was flipping out at me for not just going, I was flipping out because I physically could not go and I was getting screamed at for it. It was 2 minutes of irrationality. It was irrational, but in that moment, that premise doesn’t exist…the threat is as real, as unthinkyourselfouttable as if there was a gun to my head. My body is telling me that I cannot physically cross the bridge in the same way that when you stand next to a skyscraper you know you can’t scale it. It is not possible, and to try is to insist on failure. The symptoms were all there.
And my sister did not get it. At all. It was an irritation, when I asked her to drive over to my side rather than have me walk to her, and my refusal to do so was terrible to her.
She yanked on my arm and I felt my throat close up. A pre-swoon adrenaline kick…as strong as she is, I pulled away. I’m sure…it looked insane.
I couldn’t breathe the thought loop was supersonic at this point. A cool gust hit me and I thought for just a moment that I wanted to go home.
I thought I could do it if I could crawl. I couldn’t crawl. Then finally, she let me be for two seconds and I stopped thinking entirely. Just as before, I found myself walking. She was supposed to talk, to distract me and started counting the lights, but I fugued my whole way afraid to blink, because lights = seizures when you lack rational perspective. Out of the blue she stopped talking and my rubber legs screamed a HOLY HELL THIS IS IT but I had to get out of the danger I’d so recklessly put myself in by walking through the sky over a freeway and just kept walking until there was no more bridge.
And eventually, on the ground, it felt…like, oh, what a relief and it’s over. I didn’t feel proud about it or angry about it or anything, just exhausted. But it is wrong to say, I think, that it isn’t hard to cross that threshold and get through it. It doesn’t just go away because of one time you handle it. It’s nothing to do with the bridge itself, really. It’s this trigger that goes off and being told to get over it or told to stop it or told it isn’t real….that does not work. It does not work at all. That’s not a great answer for the rest of my life, but that’s what I have right now.
After that, more talking with the guy, ending up possibly joining some D&D campaign. We’ll see.
It is nice to be mouthless. Something I could never have reckoned with as a girl who wanted Hello Kitty to be free to speak her Hello Kitty thoughts. But it is nice not to have to tell you stories of distemper and distaste, not to have to show up and look weak, not to have to…
Sometimes I sit still and I feel as though I have got the whole nation, the whole world’s despair not only over their choice (willing or otherwise) of leader, but of every last little discomfort in their lives. Every last thing going wrong shuffling about in your head, oh cripes, it’s here in mine. It’s not right. It’s killing us. It’s too much.
It’s not yours, something like the Faithful Light will remind me, you only have that slag heap over there. That’s it. All the rest of it is not yours. But, I think, I see it. I know that it exists – hungry babies, pissed-off fathers, the snow in the morning, this grinding in my skull, that any day something horrible will happen – it will, it’s unavoidable – the inevitable brokenness of every last thing. I have just been ignoring it for a while, but it’s true. It’s true how terrible it is.
But. I sit longer and it is also true that I have ice in the freezer which makes the water better to drink and which makes me feel full. I have a mentor who texts me to come in later, to feel better, to get my spunk back. I have a mind that reads spunk and still laughs. I have a mother sleeping soundly in her bed surrounded by my father who loves her and a dog that believes she is the closest thing there is to God. I have kind friends who multiply the thin wisps of kindness I deign to blow hither and thither. I have a dear maniac and a dear brick of a cat. I am not so terribly sick as I might be.
I also had my card today so I was able to buy gas and lunch. That felt entirely luxurious. That and despite the panic attacks, the ones that keep ramping up because I feel so down about my ability to quash them and the insurance shit and the money shit and the other shit, I was able to get home before the snow fell. That’s good.
I did a few things today. I did what I was asked and a sliver more.
So I am going to run off and try and write a few things before this computer crumbles beneath my fingertips. There’s always Fallen London and some DAI to chase around. I am okay. A few hours here and I feel better even if I’m having the neck/shoulders/teeth grinding thing which upsets everything terribly. I am alright. Eventually, maybe we’ll stretch our legs and try and climb up to that next rung on the ladder. But tonight, alright’s alright, alright?
I ought to continue with the projects I am working on, however, I feel as though I need a little time at Ye Olde Lustratio. I need to be here in the way that I get to be here.
The boss may or may not be facing some major medical issues. It would not surprise me if that were the case. I…I find myself cursing this year, and cursing yet another insane blow to just..fair and orderly living. And yet, I cannot raise my fist to the sky and let my heart be consumed as an empath perhaps might generally be inclined. Instead, I feel worried and frustrated for everything and her health is not only a part of that, but also a cause of that and I just have to back away so that I can remain true to myself about it. I said that I was behind her 1000% and…in that moment, yes. But enough to spread myself another milimeter out on the carpet, to give more than I am when I’ve already decided I’m out of the solar system of these particular problems. I don’t know yet and it feels hugely fucking callous to even contemplate blocking out worrying about someone in your life’s medical suffering – particularly in light of how wildly and total and utterly I find myself bound by my emotions when it comes to my mom’s health.
I want to think of myself as wide open. As vulnerable and soft and open to the suffering, rather than cold-hearted. But this is a new place for me. I can care, but I can’t feel pain for others, I can’t burn myself hot enough to kill someone else’s cold. I am only me. So I hope she gets taken care of, I also hope I find another job. Trufax.
+338 words elsewhere.
Alright, back and away from London-town, to write to you about the fact that it does not seem to matter how I move my head and/or neck, because there’s an odd, dull pain that has come out of nowhere except for the very reasonable explanations I can find for half of it and that I am in a right fit of very calm, very relaxed panic about it.
It is just not bad enough to need to linger, and yet it has. I woke up with its presence running through me and the worry has kept my attention focused on myself from toe to tip so that every breath and twinge and horror appears to me as a flag of something too horrendous to speak of. And the hypochondria which has no verb form just lingers with it. I have spent the day leaping at internal shadows. There have been verifiable moments I have also marked down in my mind that I felt okay, that I was laughing, that I had thought, okay, this is just a pain in the neck from sitting in bed and staring down at my computer and phone 12 hours a day, conservatively. And getting old as fuck.
After this, I will be getting myself into the hot bath and soaking my neck. I’ve been using the Hitachi Magic Wand for its intended purpose. I have been considering what, as a downtrodden, broke-ass person is a problem that is at the level where I have to get it checked out and what…you know, given my histrionic history with health complaints can be borne and rode out until November 1st when I can enroll again and get myself on some sort of health track. I am actually encouraged by the thought of a health track.
It is, in some measure, if not entirely, based on the stress I feel. Work is so dysfunctional right now, and frustrating on so many levels, that I am starting to dread it. I think it’s just working through my body. It knows this isn’t right for me and even if I refuse to fully acknowledge how much I need to run for the hills, my body is finding ways of pulling my chain back…hard.
The remainder of my words are thrown at a job application.