Hi. I know it’s been awhile since I had anything real to say, and since this is Refuge in Audacity, I have to at least try for audacious. Since reality is the ultimate act of audacity in Trump’s America, that’s where I’m going. Reality.
But I think I gotta work backwards.
I have a new therapist. We disagree on some things but she’s the first one in forever to step outside the already-diagnosed-with-X box. Apparently the biggest thing everyone missed, growing up, because I was quiet and spacey, was ADD. (Not sure about the H part, but I was also most comfortable sitting on a swing to daydream, so maybe that was my [hyper]activity. Who knows.) It comes with anxiety, depression, and a whole lot of getting lost in the sauce when things get more complicated than your times tables. But I could fake normal, right, so it’s not like anyone looked any deeper than foreign girl getting bullied for being different already.
I think the anxiety and depression are legitimately a thing, too. But as Anneke said, wouldn’t it be nice to see what would happen if I weren’t on all these meds. Wouldn’t it be nice to see what my brain would do. Which is a pipe dream as you well know. There’s no good detox from benzos. It will always hurt. It will always mess you up more than it helps. There are people who think these drugs are evil; I think they are useful to keep me off the ceiling, and the people who prescribed them without telling me about the dependency part were evil. I was seventeen and I got a life sentence. I resent that so deeply, still.
In the space of one week I got a kitten and lost Adalyne. My kitten is real consolation. She has wormed her little way into the gaps in my soul where Adalyne lived. I think Adalyne had been pulling away slowly, making room. That or I mourned her very thoroughly in her last months. I’m good at anticipatory grief. That and when the last twelve hours of your furball’s life consist of seizures that rock her so hard she shits herself, you know it’ll be a relief for her to be done with it all. Because how do you explain that kind of life to a cat? What else is there to do, when you don’t know what’s causing this and educated guessing would only mean prolonging the torture? I’ve seen her survive so much. She used all nine lives just getting as far as she did. She had sixteen years. Fifteen of them were mine. That’s the longest run I’ve had with any of them. It’s okay to let go now. It was expected. It wasn’t one-month sudden. It wasn’t one-week sudden. It was a year we didn’t think we were getting. Well. Eleven months. And she hung on just long enough for my little inkblot of a Ziva-cat to find her way to me. And now I’m hanging on to Ziva for dear life.
I want to go to grad school. I want to get my master’s in public health. I don’t know precisely how to go about this. Step One will be going to see the career counselors at Empire State, which is now, mercifully, located on Westfall instead of the north end of Winton. Someone will hear me when I say “my brain is not processing this process”. But when I’m in I don’t intend to let anything stop me. I may have to put everything on hold. I don’t care. This could be the ticket into my dream world, where I’m making a real difference, where I’m not just some fuckabout x-ennial caught up in the aftermath of the Bush economy.
I have longer hair than I did. It’s still not long enough. It won’t be for over a year. I have to face this and live with it. Or get extensions. But no extensions will ever be enough to match the volume of what grows naturally from my scalp. So. Live with it. And scarves that double as cat toys.
I backed off the med that was helping my appetite. It was also killing my moods and I did not want to have to go on a drug to fix the side effects of another drug. So I’m pretty much resigned to underweight life forever. If ever they come up with a stomach-booster that doesn’t mangle neurotransmitters, I am down and do NOT tell me to start toking up because as far as I know, a. that’s still illegal and b. it also has side effects.
I haven’t been able to write lately. I don’t know how far outside the box I’m going to have to look for the next bright idea — or how far into myself I’ll have to go.
I can probably drop an F-bomb into every single part of a sentence and make it grammatically correct.
I still have a startle reflex.
I am unapologetically the kind of leftist who believes intersectionalism (aka “identity politics” to brogressives) makes us stronger.
I’m not going to bullshit you with daisies and rainbows because Caleb thinks this blog is too depressing. I’m going to keep it real like I always do and if you don’t want to know, the door’s right over there.