"I don't mind the sun sometimes"

( way too big to really think about )

Hopefully, we'll scatter a few more vacations in there. Hopefully, there will be many good things that I can't currently predict. I definitely at least want to try to get Moppet into the ocean this summer, even if Marshfield's not an option.

I put off grad school last year, not feeling like I could justify starting in January, since if I start in September I get a lot more reimbursed by Harvard. And now I want to put it off again, because I don't know how long it's going to take to get stable again, post-mastectomy. I know I'm going to shatter. I know I'm going to come apart at the seams, that my sex drive is going to pack its bags and leave town, I know that I'll probably flirt with an eating disorder, I know that I'll be terribly, terribly angry. (I was talking with a friend and we got to a point where we were talking about our breasts as though they were actively out to get us, malicious timebombs, inevitably betraying us over and over again.)

I spend so much of my time first asking for something like pity, and then deflecting it when I get it. I feel like I'm not talking to people in the right way, that I'm not actually ever opening up to anyone, and for all I vomit things forth into this forum, it's not the same as engaging with people.

I want to be patient, to see if people want to hang out with me, to open doors and let them walk through if they wish, rather than rush to greet them the way Moppet loses her shit and hurls herself at us when we come home. But I also want to chase, I want to find a way to be that enthusiastic without being devastated by the (mostly) inevitable (perceived) rejection.

I think the subtext of "pay attention to me" isn't being very sub at the moment. Once, Semicolon told me, in the overdramatic way we all talked in college, that sometimes she thought she could see the iron behind my eyes, that it all but poked through my skin, and eventually I put that iron on my back, trying to carry my shelter with me, trying to make manifest my endurance.

I keep calm with too much tea, snapping rubber bands at my wrists, hiding everyone that I might want to throw myself at on my gchat list. I'm tamping it all down, and it's going to be either a hell of a cup of espresso or a hell of an explosion.

"I don't mind the sun sometimes"

( way too big to really think about )

Hopefully, we'll scatter a few more vacations in there. Hopefully, there will be many good things that I can't currently predict. I definitely at least want to try to get Moppet into the ocean this summer, even if Marshfield's not an option.

I put off grad school last year, not feeling like I could justify starting in January, since if I start in September I get a lot more reimbursed by Harvard. And now I want to put it off again, because I don't know how long it's going to take to get stable again, post-mastectomy. I know I'm going to shatter. I know I'm going to come apart at the seams, that my sex drive is going to pack its bags and leave town, I know that I'll probably flirt with an eating disorder, I know that I'll be terribly, terribly angry. (I was talking with a friend and we got to a point where we were talking about our breasts as though they were actively out to get us, malicious timebombs, inevitably betraying us over and over again.)

I spend so much of my time first asking for something like pity, and then deflecting it when I get it. I feel like I'm not talking to people in the right way, that I'm not actually ever opening up to anyone, and for all I vomit things forth into this forum, it's not the same as engaging with people.

I want to be patient, to see if people want to hang out with me, to open doors and let them walk through if they wish, rather than rush to greet them the way Moppet loses her shit and hurls herself at us when we come home. But I also want to chase, I want to find a way to be that enthusiastic without being devastated by the (mostly) inevitable (perceived) rejection.

I think the subtext of "pay attention to me" isn't being very sub at the moment. Once, Semicolon told me, in the overdramatic way we all talked in college, that sometimes she thought she could see the iron behind my eyes, that it all but poked through my skin, and eventually I put that iron on my back, trying to carry my shelter with me, trying to make manifest my endurance.

I keep calm with too much tea, snapping rubber bands at my wrists, hiding everyone that I might want to throw myself at on my gchat list. I'm tamping it all down, and it's going to be either a hell of a cup of espresso or a hell of an explosion.