(no subject)
Jan. 10th, 2005 07:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
omnia_mutanturwoe 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.
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.
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no subject
Date: 2005-01-11 07:22 pm (UTC)I know this feeling, even if they are different twitches than yours. My list of 'events' and medications so often are taken to be who I am. Not so.
i'll live this particular life, and cry when it suits me, and sometimes when it doesn't.
It suits me lately.