Funky Doldrums.
Sounds like a band, doesn't it? Solitaire Shade and the Funky Doldrums.
This has just been a bum weekend.
There are times when I just want out of my life -- not in a permanent "up-the-block not across-the-street" kind of way but in an "anywhere but here" kind of way. This is one of those times. I want out of my life, not out of my life. And all my forms of escapism are stalling out on me. Any ordinary livejournaler would be posting maudlin lyrics.
I just have one of those unshakeable moods. It's been lingering for a while (since third grade?), and for the last week or so I've felt like I've just disappointed and pissed off everyone I care about. This includes family, real-life friends, and a few online friends. And, shit, let's throw an imaginary friend in there while we're at it. One of my characters is pissed at me, obviously, because my writing has stalled out. I did something wrong plotting this bitch and now it's just lying there like a tranqed-out Thai hooker while I pretend to enjoy fucking it.
Yeah. It does feel pretty icky. Why do you ask?
The intermittent sleeping problem I've been wrestling with off and on for weeks has finally settled enough that, just moments ago, I began the first draft of this sentence with the words "my insomnia," implying that it's enough of a thing to have its own identity. Like everyone should know what I'm talking about.
This is bad news because I have a rough week ahead of me with several early mornings, and I just don't know if I can hack it. I can't get up at ten if I go to bed at six. But if I can't sleep until six, all I do is lie there and listen to my husband snore.
No, I don't want sleeping pills, thanks, unless they're free. I have a $500 deductible to meet before I can get jack shit out of my unsurance company. And, yes, that started as a typo, but I'm leaving it.
My friends are dancing this weekend at Oktoberfest, and I won't be there. I can't stand to go and watch, even though I love them and I miss them, because it's so terrifically painful for me to watch something I can't be a part of. And I feel like I'm letting them down because of it. I should go anyway. Oh, God. I've missed birthdays, I've missed rehearsals, I've missed jokes and pep talks and workshops and crises and meeting new people. It's been almost a year since I've danced on stage. And, Christ, I'm not part of the group anymore because I called them my friends just now, and not my troupe. I'm not one of them.
I really wish my family had gotten a chance to see me live while I was still able to do it. I really do. Part of the reason I freaked so hard about the whole DVD thing last year was because I was desperately afraid Mom would miss it, and as stupid as it seems I put a lot into that dance. It meant a lot to me. Thank God I didn't know that would be the last time, because I think it would've killed me.
I'm sadly relieved that I never got that commemorative tattoo when I joined the big kids. It would be nothing but a painful, nagging reminder that I fucking failed. And saying it wasn't my fault does precisely dick. I could've tried harder and done more.
That's really at the heart of a lot of my pain -- my fucking leg. Yup. Sometimes I wish to God it were more fucked up than it is, because this halfhearted shit that keeps me from using it but doesn't visibly impair me is incredibly fucking annoying.
It's keeping me from exercising. I've put on fifteen or twenty pounds in ten months. And boy, isn't that great for the ol' ego? That alone is tearing me apart like you cannot fucking imagine. The leg is also keeping me from doing things I want to do, like dance, and keeping me from being able to express joy in what had become the simplest fucking way.
I'm not talking myself up, here, and I don't think this is going to do me any good, since I don't feel safe talking about what's really bothering me anymore, so I'm going to see if I can bang that tranqed-out whore until she wakes up, and then try to sleep through another night of horrible dreams. This is one of those times where I sincerely wish I had a drinking problem I could blame everything on. This is also one of those times where, if I had any alcohol in the house, I would definitely develop one.
I hate to disillusion those of you who think I have my shit together . . . I really don't. I'm kind of a screwup.
(Comments enabled but they will not be emailed, to give me the option of looking or not looking.)
This has just been a bum weekend.
There are times when I just want out of my life -- not in a permanent "up-the-block not across-the-street" kind of way but in an "anywhere but here" kind of way. This is one of those times. I want out of my life, not out of my life. And all my forms of escapism are stalling out on me. Any ordinary livejournaler would be posting maudlin lyrics.
I just have one of those unshakeable moods. It's been lingering for a while (since third grade?), and for the last week or so I've felt like I've just disappointed and pissed off everyone I care about. This includes family, real-life friends, and a few online friends. And, shit, let's throw an imaginary friend in there while we're at it. One of my characters is pissed at me, obviously, because my writing has stalled out. I did something wrong plotting this bitch and now it's just lying there like a tranqed-out Thai hooker while I pretend to enjoy fucking it.
Yeah. It does feel pretty icky. Why do you ask?
The intermittent sleeping problem I've been wrestling with off and on for weeks has finally settled enough that, just moments ago, I began the first draft of this sentence with the words "my insomnia," implying that it's enough of a thing to have its own identity. Like everyone should know what I'm talking about.
This is bad news because I have a rough week ahead of me with several early mornings, and I just don't know if I can hack it. I can't get up at ten if I go to bed at six. But if I can't sleep until six, all I do is lie there and listen to my husband snore.
No, I don't want sleeping pills, thanks, unless they're free. I have a $500 deductible to meet before I can get jack shit out of my unsurance company. And, yes, that started as a typo, but I'm leaving it.
My friends are dancing this weekend at Oktoberfest, and I won't be there. I can't stand to go and watch, even though I love them and I miss them, because it's so terrifically painful for me to watch something I can't be a part of. And I feel like I'm letting them down because of it. I should go anyway. Oh, God. I've missed birthdays, I've missed rehearsals, I've missed jokes and pep talks and workshops and crises and meeting new people. It's been almost a year since I've danced on stage. And, Christ, I'm not part of the group anymore because I called them my friends just now, and not my troupe. I'm not one of them.
I really wish my family had gotten a chance to see me live while I was still able to do it. I really do. Part of the reason I freaked so hard about the whole DVD thing last year was because I was desperately afraid Mom would miss it, and as stupid as it seems I put a lot into that dance. It meant a lot to me. Thank God I didn't know that would be the last time, because I think it would've killed me.
I'm sadly relieved that I never got that commemorative tattoo when I joined the big kids. It would be nothing but a painful, nagging reminder that I fucking failed. And saying it wasn't my fault does precisely dick. I could've tried harder and done more.
That's really at the heart of a lot of my pain -- my fucking leg. Yup. Sometimes I wish to God it were more fucked up than it is, because this halfhearted shit that keeps me from using it but doesn't visibly impair me is incredibly fucking annoying.
It's keeping me from exercising. I've put on fifteen or twenty pounds in ten months. And boy, isn't that great for the ol' ego? That alone is tearing me apart like you cannot fucking imagine. The leg is also keeping me from doing things I want to do, like dance, and keeping me from being able to express joy in what had become the simplest fucking way.
I'm not talking myself up, here, and I don't think this is going to do me any good, since I don't feel safe talking about what's really bothering me anymore, so I'm going to see if I can bang that tranqed-out whore until she wakes up, and then try to sleep through another night of horrible dreams. This is one of those times where I sincerely wish I had a drinking problem I could blame everything on. This is also one of those times where, if I had any alcohol in the house, I would definitely develop one.
I hate to disillusion those of you who think I have my shit together . . . I really don't. I'm kind of a screwup.
(Comments enabled but they will not be emailed, to give me the option of looking or not looking.)