dear blog

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.

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6 thoughts on “dear blog

  1. Technically, I didn’t say that your blog was “too depressing”. I merely suggested, in my own, in-articulate, fashion, that you: a) post more often, ’cause you are a good writer; and b) write more about the good things that happen to you so that your friends won’t think that you are Job 2.0. Such as: was that a new dress you were wearing at Threscore Champs? Because it looked nice.

    • Okay, technically, that last comment about the dress was a compliment from myself to you, but you could have written about the nice dress that you made and/or acquired. I fully understand that the act of writing can be a cathartic method of dealing with stress, but those of your friends who do not get see you on a regular basis, myself included, would like to know that you do find moments of happiness.

      • You do mean well, and you are kind not to recognize my cold-weather best gown that I’ve worn to every event since I made it in autumn 2014. 😉 It has truthfully been hard to find the cheerful in the middle of all the grief (anticipatory and otherwise). I won’t say nothing, waiting for something sufficiently cheery to happen, and really? The best bit of Baronial Champs was getting a hug from you. I was cold and weary from a long ride, knowing another one awaited me. Pax will be more fun. Probably when I have the bit between my teeth regarding grad school, that will be loads more fun, and I did have a very nice dream that I had plans to do a PhD in ethics right after my MPH. 🙂

      • I must not be very observant, or I don’t get to see you very often. Most likely both. For some reason, anytime I see you in anything other than the plaid tunic with the blue, Norse apron, I think it MUST be new garb. … You do have a plaid tunic with a blue, Norse apron? Don’t you? My half of my brain is telling me that you do and the other half is screaming the lyrics to “Jenny” for some reason. Regardless of outfits and/or my ability to remember them, I will always have a hug for you and a bad joke to perk up your spirits. I hope that the weather at Pax is nicely Goldilocks so that you can have an enjoyable event (Not too hot, not too cold, but just right).

      • Aha — you’ve seldom seen the dress without the apron! Mystery solved! It is a gown, and not a tunic; I joke that I managed to get it done in two weeks flat because I broke up with my boyfriend and had to fill the time somehow. And I hope you will enjoy the singing of little Ziva’s praises. She is truly Good.

  2. “I simply can’t resist a cat, particularly a purring one. They are the cleanest, cunningest, and most intelligent things I know, outside of the girl you love, of course”
    – Mark Twain.

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