(no subject)

I want to know how to feel better. I really do. Except sometimes, when I don't. Sometimes I think that I've had too much practice with self-hatred, disappointment and rage, and it's too scary to try to learn a new skill, particularly one so fundamental. It feels like trying to build a house of cards, and then move the table and expect the house of cards to stay standing, where what I imagine happening is more the tablecloth trick gone horribly wrong, clashing dishes and spilled drinks and the candles set the waitress on fire.

I am sad, I'm angry, I'm angry about being sad, and I'm sad about being angry.

I want nice things. I want to be comfortable in my house, in my body, in my head. I want to not think I'm so fucking weak for not being able to handle the saga of my boobs with complete equanimity. I want to be someone who gets up and goes to the gym rather than curls up under her blanket on her couch and weeps. I want to be secure in the love of the family I've chosen, and be able to tell the rest of the world to go fuck itself.

I want to be unruffled by the presence of exes, elegant gestures that are probably empty, silences and secrets. I want to stop feeling like I don't want to belong to any club that would have me, that people who are kind to me are either delusional or want something. But I want to surround myself with people who bring me things, rather than people who take things away, and I've mostly succeeded, and I've got my "notgood" gmail filter, and a dab hand with the removing people from my gtalk list.

Also, I'd love to stop wearing a compression bra.

I don't know the path. I really don't. My long term goal is make Light happy and own lots of pets and books. And I tell myself maybe I can pull that first thing off without ever being happy myself, and that it's okay that I don't know what I want, or how to make myself better.

And maybe, it's just the switchup from Celexa to Zoloft that's fucking me up. Or maybe it's the time of year. Or maybe it's the idea of being done with the surgeries. I've still got the tattoos to do, but if I don't do nipple reconstruction, gods willing, I might make it through this coming year without any more literal scars.

Right around the time I remet Light, I had to have a lump removed from my face. ANd I thought going in, things would be fine. I didn't think I was pretty before, what was one more unpretty thing about me? And people tell me they can't see the scar, and I believe they can't, but to this day, it looks like a crater to me, and it turns out there's no cap feeling flawed. I can, in fact, feel ever more increasingly flawed as time passes and carves its passage into me. (and I don't think it's ohnoesi'mgettingold so much as the past year or three have had too much brutality.)

I check the boxes off, I have a lovely marriage, a lovely house, I shower and go to work, I do dishes, I have cats and dogs, I read, I give money to charity, I do interesting things and most of the time, I have a killer sense of humor. There's a tree up, with presents under it, there's food in the fridge, and laundry in the wash. I own too many squishables and have endless opinions about everything, except when I have even more endless questions. I'm dry, I buy books only from local bookstores, I take the bus, I've signed up for belly dancing lessons. It's a good life, from the inside and the outside.

But I still fixate on old stories, people long past or people who are never going to show up. I still always think I should be doing something else, being someone else. I still eat my feelings, I still pick fights when I'm scared, I still think if I can find the right answer, if I can be smarter or faster, everyone will love me and I'll finally be safe.

(no subject)

I want to know how to feel better. I really do. Except sometimes, when I don't. Sometimes I think that I've had too much practice with self-hatred, disappointment and rage, and it's too scary to try to learn a new skill, particularly one so fundamental. It feels like trying to build a house of cards, and then move the table and expect the house of cards to stay standing, where what I imagine happening is more the tablecloth trick gone horribly wrong, clashing dishes and spilled drinks and the candles set the waitress on fire.

I am sad, I'm angry, I'm angry about being sad, and I'm sad about being angry.

I want nice things. I want to be comfortable in my house, in my body, in my head. I want to not think I'm so fucking weak for not being able to handle the saga of my boobs with complete equanimity. I want to be someone who gets up and goes to the gym rather than curls up under her blanket on her couch and weeps. I want to be secure in the love of the family I've chosen, and be able to tell the rest of the world to go fuck itself.

I want to be unruffled by the presence of exes, elegant gestures that are probably empty, silences and secrets. I want to stop feeling like I don't want to belong to any club that would have me, that people who are kind to me are either delusional or want something. But I want to surround myself with people who bring me things, rather than people who take things away, and I've mostly succeeded, and I've got my "notgood" gmail filter, and a dab hand with the removing people from my gtalk list.

Also, I'd love to stop wearing a compression bra.

I don't know the path. I really don't. My long term goal is make Light happy and own lots of pets and books. And I tell myself maybe I can pull that first thing off without ever being happy myself, and that it's okay that I don't know what I want, or how to make myself better.

And maybe, it's just the switchup from Celexa to Zoloft that's fucking me up. Or maybe it's the time of year. Or maybe it's the idea of being done with the surgeries. I've still got the tattoos to do, but if I don't do nipple reconstruction, gods willing, I might make it through this coming year without any more literal scars.

Right around the time I remet Light, I had to have a lump removed from my face. ANd I thought going in, things would be fine. I didn't think I was pretty before, what was one more unpretty thing about me? And people tell me they can't see the scar, and I believe they can't, but to this day, it looks like a crater to me, and it turns out there's no cap feeling flawed. I can, in fact, feel ever more increasingly flawed as time passes and carves its passage into me. (and I don't think it's ohnoesi'mgettingold so much as the past year or three have had too much brutality.)

I check the boxes off, I have a lovely marriage, a lovely house, I shower and go to work, I do dishes, I have cats and dogs, I read, I give money to charity, I do interesting things and most of the time, I have a killer sense of humor. There's a tree up, with presents under it, there's food in the fridge, and laundry in the wash. I own too many squishables and have endless opinions about everything, except when I have even more endless questions. I'm dry, I buy books only from local bookstores, I take the bus, I've signed up for belly dancing lessons. It's a good life, from the inside and the outside.

But I still fixate on old stories, people long past or people who are never going to show up. I still always think I should be doing something else, being someone else. I still eat my feelings, I still pick fights when I'm scared, I still think if I can find the right answer, if I can be smarter or faster, everyone will love me and I'll finally be safe.