random

I've been watching too many movies lately - it fills the empty hours, helps block out the things I still can't deal with.

I've stopped my friend Jack, been two or three months now, wasn't even an effort, really - he just sort of stopped working, stopped doing the job I was paying him to do. So I let him go.

And my friend CoCola, well, it's been a few weeks now, that one's been a little tougher, been jonesin' fer summa that caffeine in a serious way. But have found a few substitutes that nearly fill the gap - the sugar cravings haven't given up at all. My theory? I eat so much sugar to counteract the bitterness, to bury it under a pile of sweetness so relentless that the anger doesn't stand a chance.

Most of the time it works. Until I look in the mirror and see how fat I'm getting, and think, ok, this sugar thing is seriously messing you up. So then I look for yet another alternative, and find myself trekking down the path of these weird-ass diet sweeteners that I basically consider to be just another form of poison. Lesser of the weevils, once again...

So, as always, I'm doing the best I can.

My aunt and uncle wrote me a letter a few weeks back, after getting a weird phone message from me when they were in town and wanted to get together. I decided my moratorium on family interaction has to be across the board - no exceptions. They're all the same kind of apples, after all, though how I got to be the one variant out of that huge box-full never ceases to mystify me. Maybe there really was a little moment with the postman, after all.

Anyway.

Just watched a movie that made my world feel temporarily surreal. I was feeling good after being out and about and being flirty and friendly with lots of folks (out running various errands). It doesn't escape me that people are generally friendly when you're giving them money...but this included a few other random folks as well. Maybe it was partly the weather? It was perfect today - clear blue sky, warm but not hot, one of these precious early fall days where everything is calm and serene, you could almost believe there might be a god somewhere out there.

Whatever it was, I was in a good mood.

Came home, went for a walk, still floating pretty good.

But then I'm back inside the house again, confronted with an impossible pile of bills, soot on the carpet, ceilings, blinds, everything slightly dingy and gray from that grease fire (just on the stove, but in that few minutes managed to gunk up everything pretty good).

And the ongoing saga with the fucking washing machine - I've tried everything I can to get that piece of crap to clean my clothes without destroying them - fading the shit out of them, stretching them out of shape, shredding them, wearing them out. It's just not happening - they're not only shredded and faded, but they're still not fucking clean. And in addition to that old mister smoker yay-hoo downstairs must've washed something greasy in his last load, because now all my whites, which I ran through 6 rinses, and hauled god knows how many buckets of hot water by hand down those stairs because the washer has no hot water hookup.... which I wouldn't mind if it actually worked. All I ask for is clean clothes that aren't destroyed in the process.

But no, all my whites are now a slightly grimy gray, slightly crispy (with grease?), the cotton knits are all stretched out and stiff instead of soft like I'm used to. I'm actually afraid to use that damn washing machine. The landlady said I can go ahead and return it to the place and hunt for another one on Craigslist, but for god's sake! What a fucking crapshoot! Which I, yet again, have to do single-handedly, with no help from anyone. I may be able to get some friends to help haul the thing, but there's no one but me to care whether I actually succeed in getting something decent or not. Mr. Pig downstairs crams everything he owns into one single gigantic load, dumps some kind of cheap-ass, perfume-y detergent that has the softener mixed in, whites mixed with every color in the rainbow, plus grease and whatnot. Between the crappy washer, the cold-only, hard water, and the buildup from his crap laundry soap, it's like dunking clean dishes into a pan of dirty, greasy water to get them clean. Yuck.

But at least I've had a few good hair days - it's astonishing how much difference it makes, both in how I feel about myself and how much attention I get from guys. I've had old, young, black, white, every kind of guy you can imagine flirting with me. Very good for my ego :-)

And the women have been friendly too, and helpful. Maybe it's partly because I'm friendlier when I feel more attractive and confident? Seems likely.

Having a period today for the first time in months, a real one, where I actually have to use tampons and everything! In fact, it's been so heavy that I've even had cramps. Never thought I'd be happy to see them back again, eh? Must be doing something right.

*****
I seem to have banished fear from my mind - the panic button had been pushed so many times that not only did the button itself stop working, but the wiring shorted out and fried the entire neural network connected with it. I don't know if this means I've totally fried my adrenal system, or if some kind of protective numbness has kicked in to keep me from doing any more damage to my system. It's like some kind of cosmic override - all of a sudden I was off the Jack Daniels, without any premeditation or particular effort on my part, and the Coke too, and most of the sugar. My body demanded organic, healthy food, none of this greasy fried crap (though I've still had pizza and fish'n'chips). It's still doing the balanced, gradual thing, but I've started making herbal teas like mad, making every shower a decadent spa experience where I try out new soothing herbs. My skin and hair have put a near-total moratorium on all chemicals, being dry to the point of pain. But as I've gradually shifted my diet out of the red zone (toxicity-wise), my overall toxicity level seems to be dropping enough so that I don't have to be quite so hard-core. But man, for a little while there I was afraid that I'd end up in one of those glass bubbles, the isolation chambers.

I guess that's what kicked in the survival commando team - knowing for a fact that there's nobody out there to help me with any of this, that I have to do it all myself. It's like all this data I've collected over all these years, all the experimenting, all the trial and error, has finally added up and paid off and I'm just marching along as if it hasn't been like being pulled through the eye of a needle backward (or something) to get to this point.

I feel kind of - disconnected, like I've shoved all the bad, difficult stuff far enough away from me so that I can just simply survive, just simply stay alive at all. It's as if I'm becoming this stripped-down, highly efficient machine that has no time or energy for anything whatsoever except taking care of myself. I have no energy to waste on anyone else, unless there's something in it for me.

It's like I don't even get angry any more (or not much), and when I do, it's a very tight, focused, efficient kind of anger, that expends exactly as much energy as necessary to do job in front of me and not a speck more. If I get tired, I stop and sleep, or eat, or take a break in front of the tube with a movie. If I need company, I turn on a video. I just do what I need to do, one foot in front of the other. Where it leads? I have no idea. Again, like grandfather said, I'm just trying to get through it.

***
Maybe I'm in some kind of emotional free fall? You know, where you've jumped out of the plane, and you've pulled the rip cord, and the only thing left is either you live or you get smashed to bits on a bunch of rocks? I mean, what choices are there at this point? You just fall, and hope to hell it's a good ride, and try to keep your wits about you and your eyes wide open on the way down. Because, if you live? It's going to be a great story. And if you don't? No worries. It'll be over. No more stress.

I guess that's what it feels like - I've got one more shot, and then I'm done. I've got just enough juice left in this baby to make one more try at 'success', whatever the hell that means. I mean, creating something 'sustainable', as they say. It feels like a slalom ride where I can't see further than the very next obstacle, there's so much spray and flurry from the current event that I have no energy for anything else except surviving what's directly in front of me. Only this, and nothing more. Quoth the maven.

Well. I seem to be devolving into silliness. I truly hope somebody, somewhere, someday reads this shit and thinks, what a cool person. I'm sorry she had to struggle so hard. I wish more people would have helped her when she needed it. Something like that. My ghost will thank you for it, and not even haunt you very much.

****
You know, just for the record? It's not that I think my problems are extra special and unique or anything. It's more just my consistent inability to get any kind of useful support or understanding to help me cope with any of it. I mean, obviously I'm perfectly capable of solving any and all of the problems that come my way. The point is, what's the point? I mean, why bother when there's nobody to care about any of it but me?

It's like with Piggy downstairs - I carefully rinse out all my recyclables, only put 'clean' stuff in the bin, bag up everything in paper bags so that we don't end up with trash scattered hither and yon on collection day.

I go out there, all proud of how tidy and responsible I'm being, how organized and capable and whatnot, and lift the lid to the recycling bin to - jesus fucking christ what is that smell???!!??? I mean, the asshole dumps half-full beer cans in there, slopping sticky, funky beer all over the place, half the time he forgets which bin is which and throws his disgusting, horrible butts in the recycling bin, for fuck's sake. Jesus, that thing reeks. I tried rinsing it out one day, I just couldn't even stand to touch the thing, but next morning it was yet again full of crap. Forget it. Why try? Why bother? Why make the effort? It truly is like living with a pig. Cigarette butts everywhere, can't be bothered to pick up his own trash - what, are we living in a trailer park here? When he first moved in I tried to inspire him a bit by planting a few flowers outside his window, but he's like a blight, like PigPen from the Charlie Brown comics. His massive indifference, his total 'fuck you' attitude to any kind of responsibility whatsoever is like this miasma, this psychic ectoplasm that just fucking slimes you any time you try actually fucking care about something anywhere near him. He has like this massive negativity field that cancels out any good intentions, any desire to make an effort to improve something. He's like anti-matter. (Good god, I think I'm channeling a Valley Girl.) I even found fucking cigarette butts in the fucking yard waste bin, in the middle of droughty summer when he could have had a lovely little bin-fire. Nice. I mean, is he just stupid? Or careless? Or too drunk/tired/whatever to notice? I don't get it. Even on my worst days I still pay attention. I fucking care. Why do I care so much? Why does he care so little? How the fucking hell did I end up sharing a duplex with this fucking asshole? Jesus. I hope he fucking chokes on one of those fucking cancer sticks. Hell, I may choke him myself.

And the dog shit! For fuck's sake, he absolutely refuses to even touch the stuff. I mean there's some right outside his fucking window, for fuck's sake, and rather than fucking pick it up and put it in the trash, he leaves it lying there, and pours, I swear to god, aftershave on it to kill the smell.

There is no god. No way, no how. Or if there is? He's a fucking psycho, with the weirdest-ass, most twisted fucking sense of humor you've ever seen in your life. Jesus, Mary and Joseph. And I'm not even fucking Catholic.

***
Surviving life as an ultra-sensitive person seems to add a whole other course of hurdles (?) to the Sisyphean climb, as if there's a whole ladder you have to climb each day to deal with the sensitivity before you even get to the 'normal' ladder that everyone else seems to be climbing. It's like a handicap, where even the simplest tasks become unbearably complicated.

And it's not about perfectionism. I've tried letting absolutely everything else go to hell so that I have any energy left at all for something besides the basics. But the sink is full of dirty dishes that have been sitting there for months; the dust is a 1/4 inch thick on the carpet; I haven't worked in the garden since spring (since Piggy moved in, basically). It's amazing what an enthusiasm-killer he is. Wish I were oblivious.