a real florence nightingale

For those of you who have met me, you might already know that I get sick more often than a normal, 24-year-old person should.  This can be mostly attributed to my two obnoxious, pre-existing health problems: asthma and hypoglycemia.  The asthma ensures that I am completely debilitated every time the weather has an extreme change.  The hypoglycemia guarantees I am completely insufferable if I haven’t eaten in two hours.

How I still have friends is completely beyond me.

Autumn has decided to actually show up this year and temperatures took a pretty impressive drop in the past couple of weeks.  I had managed to stave off my usual season-change illness for some time, but Saturday night my body finally decided that This Bird Had Flown.  I don’t know if that actually makes sense in this context, but I’ve got a system full of Mucinex that says it does.  So now I find myself a coughing, phlegm-y mess and at my office, praying that the clock manages to speed up so that the next ten minutes pass in ten seconds and I can go home and curl up in bed.

My bosses have been out the past few days because they were honeymooning in sunny Florida.  Because of this, I have been working on both mine and my supervisor’s computer off and on since Thursday.  I know for a fact that boss has a weak immune system and, on the off-chance that what I have is actually contagious, I got out some sanitizing wipes to use on her computer now that it is the end of the day and I’m done working on it.  Then I realised that I had also man-handled the container the wipes come in, causing it to be potentially contaminated as well.  I have now reached a disconcerting paradox wherein even the sanitizing wipes are not sanitary because I have touched them.

I never expected proper OCD to feel so much like a Mucinex overdose.


spinning away any piece that remains

Not to sound too much like Sylvia Plath, but I’ve spent a lot of my life being sad.  I had a tough childhood that led into a tough adolescence and a few rather hellish years at college before a disappointing start to adulthood.  It’s only been in the past year (actually less) that I’ve felt like I’ve finally gotten a hold of this whole Life thing and have started making some real headway in being an actually happy person.  I’ve had some bad days and some rough times the past year, but I find myself going to bed thinking that I’m an okay kind of gal.  Honestly, it’s a really remarkable thing.  But the balance between being happy with myself and my life and the cavern of crushing depression can still teeter-totter and there are days where I feel myself on the brink of falling into that chasm.

The past week has definitely been some of those days.

I think the hardest part about losing someone you’re close to is the fact that it disrupts parts of your life that you didn’t think they were a part of.  For me, people I love and care about permeate almost every aspect of my life in ways I don’t even notice when they’re happening.  Nutella takes me back to my 8th Grade trip to Austria.  I occasionally quote Strong Bad because I picked up a lot of my ex-girlfriend’s habits while we were dating.  Striped socks = Paiga.  Armani di Gio cologne = Erik.  They’re little things that you never think about until they show up and bury you in nostalgia.  The people we love(d) never really leave us.  It’s wonderful and sad, all at the same time.

I go to Trader Joe’s because he took me there.  I can’t play Settler’s anymore because it’s his favourite game.

I woke up this morning in a weird mood.  I had a good dream — a dream without him in it — for the first time in a week, probably more.  I had a nice dream.  I went to the fair.  I had an adventure.  I was with someone else.  I woke up happy.  I got to work early and found myself buying fancy coffee and I thought, ‘I’m okay.  I feel really okay.  Today is going to be a nice day.’

And it is a nice day.  Even with the screaming Cubs fans in the background.

I’m eating again.  I’m joking again.  I don’t feel bitter.  It’s alarming somehow. 

And of course I miss him.  I miss everything about him.  But he’s not giving me the time of day.  He takes days to respond to any communication I send him.  He hasn’t told his family.  He hasn’t told any of our friends.  At this juncture — so far as I can tell — he doesn’t care about me in any sense of the word.  But that’s okay.  I don’t need him to.  And that realisation is terrifying and beyond wonderful.

it’s my world/it’s not ours anymore

much more to say, foolish to try

It’s almost my birthday. I’ll be twenty-three in less than twenty-four hours. It’s been a long year. I thought things were going to be better by this date, but after the past couple days, I’m not so sure about that. Gotta love those giant steps backwards right before deadlines. Definitely makes it harder to feel good about the things you have managed to accomplish.

I’ve lost a lot of friends this year. I’m trying to remind myself of all the ones I’ve made, too. It’s going to be okay. It’s always going to be okay. You’ve just got to get past the not-okay so you can get there. It’s just that that would be a lot easier to do if she would let me alone and stop trying to make this worse than it already is.

What’s done is done. Hate me if you want to, but go do it over there and leave me alone. I won’t let you bring me down: I’m good enough at that on my own.

I wish you were better.

i’ll sing statistics and hide the truth/i’ll tell your dad anything you want me to/i’ll hide your locket under the dirt/i’ll be your bird

pound your fist and cross it off your list

It’s almost the new year.  That’s exciting, I guess.

I have about two weeks left in BTown before school starts and I have no idea how I’m going to get through them.  I’ve gotten to the point with my mother where I’m hardly upstairs for breakfast before we start yelling at each other over the most mundane, ridiculous nonsense you could possibly think of.  Da’s home for the first time in two days today and I’m hiding in the basement instead of spending time with him because I can’t stand to be in the same room with my mother.  I’ve gotten to the point where I would rather alphabetise mix tapes than spend time with any member of my family and I have another fortnight of quality time with them.  This is insane.

I feel like my peers all have something to escape that I don’t have.  Their own apartments, a significant other’s residence, work, school, something to do that means they don’t have to associate with their family on a damn-near constant basis.  I don’t have that, really.  I have no reason to go back to Carbondale (at least not in my parents’ minds), I’m unemployed, and for the purposes of this argument, I’m homeless except for my room in their basement.  I’ve had several invitations from friends to just hole up in their apartments, but I can’t support myself enough to buy groceries or return the favour in any way.  I’m stuck.  I’m completely, hopelessly stuck.  And whenever I’m in this house, I feel more unhappy, unstable, and lonely than I’ve ever been in my entire life.

Denmark’s a prison.  Jesus, I want to go home.

you can have the christmas tree

Here is what I’m thinking about right now.

Maybe this is a Jew thing or a emo-kid thing, or maybe it’s just a Kirius thing, but I really, really, really dislike Christmas.  I dread Christmas.  The one day of the year that most of the country can agree is pretty swell is the day I most desire to sleep through or ignore.  I wake up every Christmas morning, violently willing the day to not be the 25th of December.  Any other day.  Please, Lord, let it be any day that isn’t Christmas Day.  But, of course, it always is.  Which only makes things worse, really.  This probably makes me a Scrooge or a fascist or something, but I can’t even stand the idea of Christmas.  But let me tell you why.

Reasons Why I Don’t Like Christmas:

1. I live in America.  In particular, I live in Illinois.  Southern Illinois, most of the time.  And maybe this is the case in predominantly-Christian countries everywhere, I don’t know, but in Southern Illinois, Christmas begins in August.  Which means that Christmas decorations are up, Christmas presents are being sold, and Christmas music is being played for three and a half straight months.  Christmas songs are, by far, the most annoying songs in the entire universe, if for no other reason than when it gets to be the Christmas season, one is hard-pressed to find a radio station that is playing anything but.  Also, there are…what?  A dozen or so Christmas songs?  Twenty at the most?  And they are covered by every single sorry sap with a recording contract.  And played.  Constantly.  Quite irritating.

2. Christmas is a holiday I do not personally celebrate.  I don’t begrudge anyone who celebrates Christmas; that’s totally cool with me.  I have said on several occasions that I really enjoy casually observing Christmas.  The lights are pretty, the snow is gorgeous (when it happens, which it doesn’t much in Central or Southern Illinois), the general feeling of good cheer is really nice to be around.  I even like some Christmas movies (top five Christmas movies: Nightmare Before Christmas, The Muppet Christmas Carol, It’s a Wonderful Life, Batman Returns, and The Charlie Brown Christmas Special).  I can enjoy Christmas.  However, I prefer to enjoy it from the outside.  I am a Christmas wallflower.  I don’t want to be immersed in it, stuck in the mall while it’s going on, practising it with any real dedication, or going anywhere near a church on or around the supposed date of Christ’s birth.  It’s just not my thing.

3. As a general rule, Christmas at the Palm house is the worst holiday of the year.  My da is usually working (tomorrow being a great example of this rule) and Mum gets overly stressed real easily.  There is almost always a fight about me going to church (Mum usually wins just because I get tired of her yelling); there is inevitably some sort of fit involving grandma and grandpa, usually ending in Grandma crying, Da yelling, or Grandpa holing up in the bathroom for an immeasurable amount of time; my brother is generally an asshole (which is, really, nothing new).  And that’s on the good years.  Everyone is stressed out, irritated, and, in general, unhappy.  Yet we all are told to pretend that this is a happy holiday?  Yeah, I know, it’s the anniversary of Jesus’s birth and all that bullshit, but I don’t fucking care.  In fact, the thing that keeps me from outright disliking Jesus is the fact that his birthdays tend to suck as much as–if not more than–mine.  We’re kindred spirits in that regard.

Is it too much to ask that this sort of falderal ends?  That we could have one Christmas that doesn’t end in tears and upset stomachs?  That we could do something quiet and simple and actually have a nice time?  Actually be a loving family and maybe do a little something to bring about that world peace everyone talks about?  I don’t think it’s ridiculously selfish to want one national holiday that doesn’t involve feeling like shit.  I really don’t.  It’s not even Christmas yet, and I feel like shit already.  This isn’t healthy, you know?  This doesn’t make us a stronger family or better people.  I’m sick of that being an excuse for all of the bullshit we go through at the holidays.

Someone asked me a few weeks ago what I wanted for Christmas this year.  I thought about it a while and decided that I want a Christmas that doesn’t happen in BTown.  I want to spend the day with one or two people who love me unconditionally, who don’t care if I got them expensive presents or made them cookies.  I want to not have to feel guilty about everything and have a day that’s just for me.  I want to sit on the couch with Lem and eat frozen pizza and drink egg nog and watch movies with those one or two people who love me unconditionally.  I want to laugh.  I want to enjoy the holiday without having to be a part of it.  I want the chance to never have to go through any of this pain and depression and bullshit ever again.

But I knew that wasn’t what they were asking.  So I said to get me some socks instead.

but the idea just lives on

I had some rum.  And now I’m feeling pensive.  It doesn’t help that I’ve been in Bloomington for almost 72 hours and my grandparents were over today and I’m already itching to get the hell out of here.  It’s not that I don’t love my family or home or whatever; I really do.  I’ve been reminded of a lot of the things I love most about home since I’ve gotten here.  I have friendships here that are so different than the ones I have at school and my relationship with my da is something I treasure so, so much.  This morning I woke up with a twenty-five pound beige tabby on my feet and I started to remember what it feels like to be honest-to-G-d happy.  It’s brilliant.  I feel like I see the bad things and instantly want to run away.  I can’t handle the bad things.  They hurt too much.  I’m scared of them, I guess.

I had this very long and difficult conversation with my therapist on Thursday about why I don’t like myself and why I can’t think of myself as a good person.  I see the phrase–hell, I think the phrase–and I instantly feel like crying.  I don’t know, really, what exactly caused this to be my default response to the idea.  It’s been going on for a while and it’s really, really gotten old.  But it happens.  I know it happens.  I can’t take compliments and I can’t act seriously when people start suggesting that this phrase might apply to me.  I don’t think I’m a bad person.  Really, I don’t.  But I don’t think I deserve that kind of adoration.

I will never have children.  They might adore me.

I think the reason relationships are so difficult for me is that I can’t handle the amount of affection some people are interested in bestowing on me.  I think it’s fake and I run away from it.  My mum was trying to talk me up to our next door neighbour today and I kept negating everything she said.  I can’t take praise.  I would much rather handle criticism.  At least then I feel justified in going home and crying.

I’m so sick of crying.  This has been happening far too much in the past few months.

This is kind of angsty.  Apologies…

I really, really would like to lead a normal life.  Or at least normal in the sense that I’m functional.  The problem right now is, I think, that I’m too functional.  I’ve gotten so bloody good at bottling up all of the shit and keeping it in and repressing repressing repressing that when I finally do burst at the seams, I feel like a failure because of it.  So I start repressing even more.  Naturally, you can see the logical conclusion of this.  I’m so afraid of what other people think of me that I resist spending any amount of time with them.  I’ve got it into my head that my closest friends dislike me because of my sudden outbursts when I know FOR A FACT that this is not true.  My mind is trying to cut me out of everyone’s lives because I feel like I’m unworthy of the wonderful people in mine.  I don’t lie when I say that I have the best friends in the entire universe.  I just wish I could return the favour to them.

Frustrating thought of the evening:  I’m actually considering not moving to Chicago (the one place on Earth I have always wanted to live) because of a single person.  Even more frustrating:  this person is one of the most important and influential people in my life.  I’m scared.  I’m scared that it’ll make me worse.

I should go to bed.  Rum makes me wordy and I know it.

I wish I was pretty and I wish I could dress myself and I wish I could call Donovan and tell him we can’t be together because he has no concept of how to deal with people like me and I wish I could call someone else and tell him that I love him in more ways than one but that one way is light-years more important than the other and I wish I could call someone else and tell him that I went to therapy because I don’t know how to be happy without him and that makes me want to scream and cry and throw up and never see him again even though I do.  And I want to call my brother and tell him everything but I never will.  And I want to tell my parents but I’m scared of what they’ll do.  And I want to pack a bag and leave just go just run away from everything I know and start over because I some days do think you guys would be better off without me.  Which is a stupid thing to think but, then again, I’m kind of being stupid right now.

And I really want to go back in time and stay at Christie’s tonight instead of coming home because then I wouldn’t be hitting the wall I’m hitting right now.

I know it’ll be better in the morning and I’ll feel incredibly embarrassed for posting all of this.  But sometimes when you’ve had rum and far too much pizza and come home to see that your ex-girlfriend is still your facebook friend for reasons that completely escape you on a daily basis and that she’s posted something awful and sardonic about her daily life that you have no interest in knowing because she was still following your blog for years after you broke up, you just kind of have to blog-vomit and hope for the best.

I’m cleaning the house tomorrow.  My sanity is begging for it.

i was too dumb to settle down

Hello, internet!  Long time, no see.

So for those of you who missed the memo (or don’t check facebook religiously), my ass got dumped two weeks ago.  (I would try to put it more delicately, but I really can’t: that’s what happened.  And following the ass-dumping, I had to drive four hours in order to get back home.  Do you know how hard it is to drive while you’re crying hysterically?  It’s kind of ridiculous.)

So I did what any mature adult would do in the situation: I drank a good deal.  I ran away to somewhere that means nothing to him and everything to me, and I saw people that told me I’m a good person and to fuck the rest.  And I drank some more.  I discovered that there is, in fact, one kind of beer I like, but I can’t remember what it’s called anymore; I’ll have to ask Randy.  I listened to Everclear a lot.  I kissed a bloke I probably shouldn’t have.  I read.  I caught up on Lost.  It was okay.

Sometimes I forget that the world changes, but it doesn’t always have to end.

Naturally, I’ve been doing a bit of soul searching and trying to come up with a new ‘plan’ for how I’m going to do things.  This usually happens to me when I break-up with someone.  I’m not entirely sure if that’s healthy, but it’s keeping my mind occupied.  I think I am going to go to Grad School, hopefully waiting a year between graduation before I go there.  I want to study Theatre for Youth.  My biggest problem with theatre right now is getting stuck working with schmucks who don’t give a shit.  But kids?  Kids care about everything.  I love that.  If I could work with kids and teach them about the thing (at least artistically) that I care about the most, that would be cool.  That would be really, really cool.  And then I’d have a decent excuse to become a professional clown.  

Basically, I want to be my Aunt Mo when I grow up.  I think this is my best career move yet.

Things have gotten harder, since I got back to school.  I’m worried I’m going to run into him.  It hasn’t really hit me that things are over, so I sometimes feel that I’m sort of playacting what it would be like to be dumped by him.  Once I see him, though, and I realise that I can’t run up and hug/kiss/whatever him, it’s going to click.  I don’t want it to click; I’ll admit that.  The lack of phone calls is getting uncomfortably real as it is and I freak out every night thinking he’s dead or missing or something.

I kind of want to know if he’s told his parents yet.  I like his family a lot and they liked me a good deal from what I understand.  After he met me, his father told him, ‘Don’t fuck this one up.’  You can understand my curiosity.

I just wish reality would kick in already.  Then I wouldn’t feel so guilty thinking about the things I’ve been thinking about, especially the things that don’t involve him at all.  I keep feeling like I need to be in mourning or something, and I’m not.  I’m lonely, I’m depressed, I’m bored and moody, but I’m not sad.  Sadness is active; this is just dull.  If I was sad, I’d be so much happier about the situation.

I hate being in the inbetween.

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