"surprised when i find"

i want a weekend to recover from my weekend.
which makes me feel ungrateful to say, because it was a nice weekend, and i wouldn't have traded getting snowed in with Mech and Light for anything. i got to make them waffles and lasagna with homemade sauce (for different meals) and there was cleaning, even in the bathroom, and the house looked really nice. they moved the hutch downstairs, and i've stuffed the entirety of our candle collection in an old rickety tv stand, so the house is missing something, but looks more open. the christmas tree's on the back porch, waiting until spring, or the point it dries out enough that we can crack it into smaller pieces and stuff it in the dumpster. (per the head of the condo association). and Motion's visit at least let me show her and her boy the adorableness that is northampton.

i got to play boggle this weekend. (of which, wordracer is only a pale online imitation, and i really wish there was someone else to play wordracer with other than the too-busy Junkyard (who should really spend less time working and more time catering to my whims.)) and watch play hours of Fable, and watch Mech and Light play Risk: Godstorm, and introducing Mech to my
kitten, and to Donkey Konga.

and now, i want to curl up in bed with the book that Lilo lent me (damn you, woman. i'm sixhundred pages in, and i had to convince myself not to call out sick and finish it today).

i had two little lessons in my insecurities and how they still make themselves manifest this weekend, all but back-to-back, once from History and once from Motion, both unintentional, both making me a little bit shaky. fortunately, curling up in Light's lap tends to calm me back down, and helps me remember who i am and where i come from, which i'm sure i could do for
myself, but am so very, very grateful that now all it takes is his hand on my hair, instead of half a pack of cigarettes and some serious (and seriously painful) introspection.

and the car demands its tithe, and i wonder why i have it, a thought itself that seems a joy to me to even have cross my mind, because it displays a level of trust that i would have found ludicrous at any other point in my life. Rely on someone else? the heavens forefend! and now i almost wish it were practical, because i don't want to blow the $540 on tires and pads and rotors and labor. i'd love to sell the car and blow the proceeds
on my student loans and a new dining room table and a bed frame and refinishing the floor and shelves for the basement and another bookcase and a new sewing machine and nightstands and....you get the idea. wishes, horses, beggars, foottravel.

and in addition to remembering what i am, i need to remember what i'm not. which is hard, because it draws me back to places where i'm nothing, but i've immersed myself in too much mythology to be able to embrace hubris with open arms. i've made all of my choices, danced to all the tunes i've called, and can do no more than this.

"surprised when i find"

i want a weekend to recover from my weekend.
which makes me feel ungrateful to say, because it was a nice weekend, and i wouldn't have traded getting snowed in with Mech and Light for anything. i got to make them waffles and lasagna with homemade sauce (for different meals) and there was cleaning, even in the bathroom, and the house looked really nice. they moved the hutch downstairs, and i've stuffed the entirety of our candle collection in an old rickety tv stand, so the house is missing something, but looks more open. the christmas tree's on the back porch, waiting until spring, or the point it dries out enough that we can crack it into smaller pieces and stuff it in the dumpster. (per the head of the condo association). and Motion's visit at least let me show her and her boy the adorableness that is northampton.

i got to play boggle this weekend. (of which, wordracer is only a pale online imitation, and i really wish there was someone else to play wordracer with other than the too-busy Junkyard (who should really spend less time working and more time catering to my whims.)) and watch play hours of Fable, and watch Mech and Light play Risk: Godstorm, and introducing Mech to my
kitten, and to Donkey Konga.

and now, i want to curl up in bed with the book that Lilo lent me (damn you, woman. i'm sixhundred pages in, and i had to convince myself not to call out sick and finish it today).

i had two little lessons in my insecurities and how they still make themselves manifest this weekend, all but back-to-back, once from History and once from Motion, both unintentional, both making me a little bit shaky. fortunately, curling up in Light's lap tends to calm me back down, and helps me remember who i am and where i come from, which i'm sure i could do for
myself, but am so very, very grateful that now all it takes is his hand on my hair, instead of half a pack of cigarettes and some serious (and seriously painful) introspection.

and the car demands its tithe, and i wonder why i have it, a thought itself that seems a joy to me to even have cross my mind, because it displays a level of trust that i would have found ludicrous at any other point in my life. Rely on someone else? the heavens forefend! and now i almost wish it were practical, because i don't want to blow the $540 on tires and pads and rotors and labor. i'd love to sell the car and blow the proceeds
on my student loans and a new dining room table and a bed frame and refinishing the floor and shelves for the basement and another bookcase and a new sewing machine and nightstands and....you get the idea. wishes, horses, beggars, foottravel.

and in addition to remembering what i am, i need to remember what i'm not. which is hard, because it draws me back to places where i'm nothing, but i've immersed myself in too much mythology to be able to embrace hubris with open arms. i've made all of my choices, danced to all the tunes i've called, and can do no more than this.

(no subject)

woe betide.
and all that shit.
and it's these little moments, in a silent house that i'm too worn down to clean, where i start to worry at the edges of everything, like a dog with a bone, or a compulsive with a scab.

what sort of treatment do i merit, and is merit even an applicable word? i'm on the fringes of a lot of things, and most of the time, i'm okay with that, even comfortable.
if i give up my car, will i fade away?

this time of year makes me moody, brings to mind years ago, struggling to put the pieces together after my one real suicide attempt, depakote destroying cognitive function, and alcohol teaming up with zoloft to poke holes in what i do remember. i've never liked my birthday, it's always seemed an occasion designed to prove or highlight my social shortcomings.

i've got an intake exam wednesday. not because i'm going inpatient, but because when the hospital switched insurances at the end of the year, i was forced, for coverage reasons, to seek a new doctor to oversee my medication management. and there are few things quite so uncomfortable as reducin the past twenty nine years into a laundry list of mistakes, medications, and episodes. i am more than these twitches.

he'll be home in half an hour, and we'll watch west wing, and eat leftovers and i'll try and put these fears back to bed. i'll live this particular life, and cry when it suits me, and sometimes when it doesn't.

i used to ask people all the time to tell me about myself. i've mentioned it often enough, and mostly because sometimes, i desperately miss it. i want to be this woman, with a house painted to match the furniture, and many cats, and aweinspiringly awful DVDs, so many books, with books and patience and twentyseven kinds of tea and just as many neuroses. i want to be this woman, with hidden tattoos and a picture of her greatgrandfather hanging on the wall, not out of any sense of family, just because he's a scary motherfucker. candles and permanent halloween directions and an inability to watch movies where people die in hospital beds, and blunt and sharpedged, all at once.

and i write about it to make it real, to create it. because i don't think i have anyone else to put it into words right now, except sometimes sanguine, and she's too kind. it's the first time in a long, long time where i've calmed down enough to contemplate acting instead of reacting, and the first time i've actively noticed that i don't think i'm sacrificing anything i'll regret later. as much as i mope about what my mannerisms cost me in terms of being too demanding a friend, i don't intend to change. and whereas i'd only change the past if it guaranteed i ended up right here, right now, i'm pretty sure the present is exactly the best i can make of it, with occasional room for improvement to keep it interesting.

(no subject)

woe betide.
and all that shit.
and it's these little moments, in a silent house that i'm too worn down to clean, where i start to worry at the edges of everything, like a dog with a bone, or a compulsive with a scab.

what sort of treatment do i merit, and is merit even an applicable word? i'm on the fringes of a lot of things, and most of the time, i'm okay with that, even comfortable.
if i give up my car, will i fade away?

this time of year makes me moody, brings to mind years ago, struggling to put the pieces together after my one real suicide attempt, depakote destroying cognitive function, and alcohol teaming up with zoloft to poke holes in what i do remember. i've never liked my birthday, it's always seemed an occasion designed to prove or highlight my social shortcomings.

i've got an intake exam wednesday. not because i'm going inpatient, but because when the hospital switched insurances at the end of the year, i was forced, for coverage reasons, to seek a new doctor to oversee my medication management. and there are few things quite so uncomfortable as reducin the past twenty nine years into a laundry list of mistakes, medications, and episodes. i am more than these twitches.

he'll be home in half an hour, and we'll watch west wing, and eat leftovers and i'll try and put these fears back to bed. i'll live this particular life, and cry when it suits me, and sometimes when it doesn't.

i used to ask people all the time to tell me about myself. i've mentioned it often enough, and mostly because sometimes, i desperately miss it. i want to be this woman, with a house painted to match the furniture, and many cats, and aweinspiringly awful DVDs, so many books, with books and patience and twentyseven kinds of tea and just as many neuroses. i want to be this woman, with hidden tattoos and a picture of her greatgrandfather hanging on the wall, not out of any sense of family, just because he's a scary motherfucker. candles and permanent halloween directions and an inability to watch movies where people die in hospital beds, and blunt and sharpedged, all at once.

and i write about it to make it real, to create it. because i don't think i have anyone else to put it into words right now, except sometimes sanguine, and she's too kind. it's the first time in a long, long time where i've calmed down enough to contemplate acting instead of reacting, and the first time i've actively noticed that i don't think i'm sacrificing anything i'll regret later. as much as i mope about what my mannerisms cost me in terms of being too demanding a friend, i don't intend to change. and whereas i'd only change the past if it guaranteed i ended up right here, right now, i'm pretty sure the present is exactly the best i can make of it, with occasional room for improvement to keep it interesting.