Now that I can open all the pages to write a blog post about ordering Indian food online, I don’t wanna.
I’m too tired to think up something witty. No, I’m not tired. I’m drained. I feel flat, not perky or sparkly, not what I need to write a food most that is, afterall, mostly pictures, and a few captions here and there.
It’s the same on Facebook at the moment. I can share something, something political, or whatever. But I can’t craft the words for the discussion. THERE I can quip one-liners. But I don’t want them here right now, and, yes, I seem like I can ramble on the words, blurt them out on the page, but that is this. The personal ramblings that I reserve the right to do over here. By remembering to renew my domain name for its thirteenth year of service, and by knowing that my hosting allows me til the end of next month to remember to pay the bill for the upcoming year.
I reserve that right, just as you reserve the right to tune out once it’s not food porn or purple gay sparkles. Once it turns to me ramble and whether to hit publish. Once I know that too many hearts of people are hurting at the moment and I don’t know what to do with all that hurt and pain and grief and sadness without imploding myself. Without becoming another casualty of their pain.
Looking after those around me, while trying to keep moving on forwards myself. I have a good feeling on one job I applied for, but I can’t let myself get excited, because all it will do is crush me if it falls through. I have to keep trying, at least enough to get it on paper to be asked why it isn’t all working next fortnight.
Away this weekend, but I doubt it’s a real break. Too many family things to deal with for others for me to be able to relax, I need to be on guard. To look after others. To be the strong one. Because I can do that, it just takes a lot of energy. I used to always do it, but I’ve let my skills slide. Let myself be the one being looked after. I just need to have my own basket at least packed away for the weekend, so I can be alert, be in tune, be the one in control of myself and my emotions.
I’m okay. I’m keeping afloat. I’ve had my moments. I’ve run crying away from things, or retreated into a ball. I’ve allowed myself to sleep rather than think any more, I don’t want to do it all, just some, but I need to do what’s handed to me. I need to keep up with some things. I’ve failed at some, I try. I try.
Or I distract. With nail painting, with flowers, with … I don’t know.
I think about things, like on the BINGO list of things that would just fix it for me.
And it would be okay. It is okay. I AM “okay”.
I’m gonna make it through to the next round.
Here is an icecream. Mint choc chip and Macadamia, from Jim’s milk bar. Because sometimes regressing to your childhood happies can be a good thing. And sometimes it isn’t, because you either can’t make the feeling last or it comes with other feelings. Like regret, or sadness, or anxiety or fear.
I’m putting together a post for Mental Health Awareness Week next month, for Tegan over at Musings of the Misguided. Not sure what I’m going to end up with – it could be experiences of therapy, or life, of medications, or acting out and self-medicating (could be an exciting ride).
I have chunks. Chunks from different periods of time.
From High School, from the HSC, from Uni. From last weekend, from last night.
From my seventh birthday.
From less pin-pointable childhood moments. Fuzzy. Sad, fearful, confused.
Unable to label.
From starting therapies and medications.
(The horror of admitting I needed help from these, that I couldn’t just will myself out of it)
Including shame at failing at things like work, or therapy, or relationships, or loving myself.
Moments of tears and laughter. Regression. Helplessness.
Disjointed and unclear, but vivid too.
All parts of my existence. Rejecting parts and re-embracing them.
On paper. To certain songs that are my soundtrack.
can’t you do it for me, i’ll pay you well
fuck i’ll pay you anything if you could end this
can’t you just fix it for me, it’s gone berserk…
fuck i’ll give you anything if
you can make the damn thing work
can’t you just fix it for me, ill pay you well,
fuck ill pay you anything
if you can end this
hello, i love you will you tell me your name?
hello, i’m good for nothing – will you love me just the same? dresden dolls – perfect fit
I hate yelling, being yelled at, and most of all, hate seeing children told off, angrily, for just being kids. It scares me, it makes me want to, or to actually run away, escape someplace “safe”. Outta there.
“Getting in trouble” is that feeling. Where I’ve done something wrong, and am getting in trouble for it.
Maybe I phrased something the wrong way.
Maybe I forgot to do something I promised.
Maybe I looked at someone the wrong way in the presence of a lover.
I’ve done something to slight someone and they’ve picked up on it