My idea of perfection is Alan Rickman, chocolate, pizza, and sex (though not necessarily all at the same time. That could get a bit messy).
I am in a down mood; I have been since my birthday, actually.
First of all, I am stoked to meet Kel, her sister, and her brood. I cannot wait to hear Vienna (though it’ll be in
Norfuck Norfolk, VA, and not Oriental), and I am excited to see how Kel is going to shoot me (with a camera, of course). I don’t take good pics, so I’m curious to see what she can do with Alejandro (her trusty camera).
That said, I still have a shit-load to do before I go. The house is still a mess, and I have a day and a half to clean it. I also have my session in the morning. I also have to wash my hair, and I probably will do one more load of laundry. I also have that job hunt to do and other shit (including losing weight). Instead, I sit on my flat ass and do nothing of importance.
My best friend and I had a heated discussion Friday night about regrets. She’s the type to not regret things in life in part because she looks at the bigger picture. She says, “Do I regret doing this?” While the experience may have been painful, overall, she’s glad she did that or this or whatever. On the other hand, I am all about regrets. There are more experiences in my life that I would give up wholeheartedly than keep. The abuse by my father? Gone. My entire childhood, in fact, would be erased. Thailand? Goodbye. My relationship with D, I would keep. My relationship with M, I would not.
In addition, I wanted to cut off some experiences at some point. She said I couldn’t do that, and I said why not if we were playing pretend, anyway?
By the way, I hate the heat. I am unbelievably grumpy right now. I am wearing my South Park boxers, shirtless, my hair braided, and still sweating like a pig. I have SAD in the hot seasons, and I’m not Miss Perky at the best of times.
Oh, and FYWP (fuck you, Word Press). I just lost more than half this post. Fuckers. I will try to reconstruct, but it won’t be easy.
The one thing I have always prided myself on is my brain. I am intelligent, and I have no qualms about saying that. I am fucking intelligent, and I have no qualms about thinking that. However, the same brain that allows me to read voraciously, have a magnificent vocabulary, come up with witty repartee, and lets me think nimbly on my feet is the same damn brain that spawned my demons. They live in my brain, and they are quite fucking smart, too. Therefore, they can use my intelligence against me because they know me so fucking well. Did I create them? Of course I did. But, like Dr. Frankenstein, the monster has gotten bigger than his creator.
My demons know my weaknesses, and they gleefully pounce on every one. Right now, I am struggling with my ED issues. Well, that’s not quite accurate. I am indulging in my ED issues. While intellectually I know that they are bad for me, emotionally, the rituals bring me comfort. And, I am a fucking beached whale, which I do not like.
Fear and self-loathing in Minnesota. That would be the title of my autobiography if I felt compelled to write it. Which I don’t.
Fifteen years I wasted dwelling in that deep, dark abyss. Fifteen years of my life gone, and now, I’m thirty-nine with nothing to show for my life. No career, no marriage, no kids, no published works, no legacy. OK, I don’t want number two or three, but that’s besides the point. All of my friends are successful in their own way (I only hang out with the best), and while it’s inspiring to me, it also underscores how bereft my life is.
Every step forward reminds me of how many more I have to go. My therapist once said that if I get stuck regretting the lost fifteen years, in another fifteen years I’ll be sitting in therapy talking about the lost thirty years. She’s right, of course, but that doesn’t make it any easier for me to break free. You know the saying, “Ignorance is bliss”? The opposite would be, “Knowledge is hell”. I know the shit I need to do and to change about myself. I have known it for some time. The fact that I cannot make myself do what I need to do tears me apart. It adds to my already huge reservoir of guilt. If I didn’t know what was wrong with me, I wouldn’t be able to beat myself up so easily over it.
I hate that life is so fucking hard for me. Let me clarify. It’s not physically hard or monetarily hard (I’m ashamed to say), but the energy I use to do anything of significance is emotionally exhausting. I can make a mountain out of any molehill, and I do it every time I do anything, without fail. Even when I’m going to do something I like, such as hang out with my best friend, I have to talk myself into going. If I need to do something I really fear (like find a real job, my personal nemesis. My therapist said that no one likes it, but it’s a phobia with me), then it takes me ten times the amount of time it takes a normal person.
I’ve used this example before, but it’s apt. When my best friend separated from her husband and agonized about what to do, her mom said, “Kiki, you’ll be fine with him, and you’ll be fine without him.” I joked that my mom’s answer would be, “Minna, your life will be awful with him, and your life will be awful without him.” It’s true, though. That is my family mentality–there is no right decision, only a wrong one and a wronger one.
It’s a no-win situation, and I know that I get myself caught in it all the fucking time. I see what I want, and I see a barrier between me and my heart’s desire. It doubly-sucks that I am the one who put the barrier there. I hate the fact that I am the one creating the obstacles in my way. It doesn’t make it easier to deal with the barrier because I just heap on the shame and blame along with doing everything I can to avoid going through the barrier.
The amount of time I put into avoiding doing the shit I need to do is just stupid. I mean, if I could put it out of my mind during the avoidance time, that would be one thing. However, I brood on the thing I need to be doing the entire time I’m studiously avoiding doing said deed. It’s so fucked-up.
I’m exhausted. If I could, I would take my rusty pitchfork and jab at my brains until they turned to goo and ran out of my nostrils. My dreams suck. My motivation sucks. My energy sucks. I suck–and not in the good way. Bah. Humbug.