I’ve had enough of this shit, this being sick shit, this life of illness, pills, symptoms, walls, internal life, a really short chain bullshit.
It was supposed to be “We find out what’s wrong, we work on it and we go back to a better, stronger, successful (finally) life“. At least then I had pride in the fact that I worked for whatever I had, my roof over my head. I know, I know, I paid into this but I’m not used to not prevailing. This isn’t something you put behind you and I’m sad. None of this was supposed to or was even within the realm of possible when this all started. I don’t want to do this anymore. I’m not going to do it. I can’t bring myself to do it. None of this.
I’m not saying I want to die. It’s the exact opposite. I want to live. I want to see people, I want to know how to be comfortable. I want to feel my body moving again, just all the things people feel when fully alive. Sleeping because you don’t know why you’re having what feels like a terrible UTI and –Oh Gosh this means calling the doctor who just rightly called you on the carpet for treating him like critical care only to realize its tumors blowing because of coffee colored urine– isn’t living. This shit used to happen when I worked and my employers hated it. Always the threat of write ups or just complete disapproval from the boss down. I managed, I knew what it was like, too, but was were more understanding of the hires and shift workers. This is probably why I didn’t make it in retail but did well in health care. So, it isn’t a desire to die, it’s a desire to stop living like this, living the life of the sick and all. I want to pack my bags and just drive, but, to add insult to injury and make it even more comedic, the license has been taken because of seizures. Maybe I’ll just walk.
Maybe I’ll just walk like one of the kids from the Li’l Rascals with a stick and kerchief over my shoulder and all my worldly belongings tied in it.
I’m having trouble focusing, there is no short-term memory and sitting still isn’t an option when I am awake. This is good though because with so many people constantly visiting, this house gets messy fast. Right now there is too much stuff for my liking in the house. I’m a minimalist but others aren’t so there’s a clash of living beliefs and I feel claustrophobic.
There was a flashback last night, possibly all I need to remember for now, even ever. The rest can just come or not come. To know that my core beliefs of myself as intrinsically evil, bad, going to hell, “the devils little girl” and ugly, came from someone vile and cruel is helping me put another person into perspective, as well. These past two to three years have been a complete cleaning, scrubbing, re-arranging and rebirth of who I am at my essence.
Things can be closed up now. I can tell this person in my head, who I consciously knew was never nice to me but never had such detailed memories about until last night, to take her poison and give it her best shot. Only a really feeble person picks on a small child. Try me now, I’m your age now, Old Woman. I’m glad she’s dead but I wish she wasn’t. My new verbal brevity with the person closest her has really simply been practice to get to being able to face her.
Over the years people ask themselves “Why do I write?” and they all seem to come up with these really important and key answers for themselves. I came up with one that came close “I write so I don’t choke on the words.” but that’s both over the top and yet falls short at the same time. I realized just a short time ago that everyone needs a clearing in the woods, a secret place to just be, to talk to God, to make mistakes, to dance, to cry about the most internal things, to breathe with the trees, to kiss the moon and writing is that scream into the void for me. I know very few, if any, come. That makes this so much better for me. I read others things, don’t comments but feel your words so when I know someone has taken a moment I hope something resonates or helps but doesn’t harm or bring up bad things that go nowhere. I write because I don’t want this to be wasted just on me. I can’t feed the poor, give sight to the blind (I’m no surgeon and trust me, with this neurology, you don’t want me to be one) but I can do things like always be self-examining and trying to grow, at least as honest with myself as I can, as honest with others as is necessary (I have to put detailed boundaries because I have issues without formulas). Dr. W. said one day “A hundred years from now we’re going to find out you’re a genetic anomaly.” Maybe that’s true, I don’t know but a lot of what was written was like a smoke signal “Is there anybody out there?” like an alien tapping out code looking for another alien body. I am brusk, uncomfortable and have difficulty with physical touch but I love to hug and play so there is always the push-pull in real friendships. Writing allows me to safely be open, as open and real as I choose. It’s just me in a clearing, shouting to the ethers and it’s allowed. I still screw it up but not quite as horrifically as I do in real time.
It’s just me in a clearing, shouting to the ethers.
It’s just me in a clearing, shouting to the ethers.
It’s just me in a clearing shouting to the ethers so I don’t just walk away from it all taking this genetic anomaly with me.