Five of Swords
I am so super-duper maxi extreme ultra not okay. Ugh.
Monday was hard. I knew it would be, but I had no idea. We went through the stuff at the grandparents' house preliminarily, and I came away with some things I'm glad to have. I thought I was fine, I truly did, but then I spent the rest of the day competely spacy, the way you are after you've taken a big hit. I think they still call it shock, even though that word implies both "sudden" and "surprising," and this was neither.
I was shaken.
I left the groceries in the car for two hours, I left my food in the oven for twice as long as it needed to be there, twice in a row I let water boil away in the kettle, and I found myself staring into space a lot. I only slept for about four hours that night, and only about four last night, too. Nightmares. (Interspersed with dreams of spanking Tom Welling, but we won't go there.)
Yesterday I was a complete basket case, which wasn't helped by the fact that I was starting out on a sleep deficit, and then everything in the world decided to piss me off.
First it was me finding out the movie I wanted on DVD isn't out yet, like Amazon said it was. They had The Covenant (the sucky version with Steven Strait) confused with another The Covenant (version the suckier with Edward Furlong), and the one I want won't be out for a good long time yet. Motherfucker.
Next it was the City of Tulsa coming down my street with huge diesel trucks to inspect the pipelines. Their engines were running outside my house all morning. Add to that the tree-sawing crew on the other side of us, and it was noisy. When you factor in the barking dogs, sent into Code Red by the workmen, it was apocalyptic. I am surprised that you, wherever you are, didn't hear it.
Then it was the dogs barking all by themselves. For two hours. No matter how much I yelled at them and no matter how many times I shot them with the BB pistol.
Then it was my own cats, tearassing around like someone had put peppercorns in their asses and howling at the top of their little lungs. For no reason at all.
Then it was TU. I am so. Fucking. Pissed. Apparently there was some kind of game - I really do not give a shit about sports, so I don't know what. Football, probably. The nonstop noise from the stadium started at four o'clock, and ended at eleven. It began with the marching band practicing - drums and oompah oompah music. Then it was yammering over the loudspeaker, and hollering, and fucking tornado sirens going off every time they scored a touchdown, I shit you not. And loud, LOUD country music blared over the loudspeakers at irregular intervals. What the fuck? Who CARES about that shit? Holy Christ! Die. All of you. DIE.
It's easier for me to deal with almost anything else than it is for me to deal with noise. It completely pulls me apart at the seams. I cannot function.
Now, add to all of this the constant feeling of being on edge, either about to attack someone or start crying at the drop of a hat. Maybe both.
Yeah.
I'm trying hard not to flip the fuck out, since there is no real reason to. I hate feeling like this, because it makes me feel profoundly weak and stupid.
"Oh, boo hoo. Look who doesn't want to go and sort quietly through piles of stuff for her own benefit. Wah, wah, waaah. Look who can't hold her shit together even though nobody's really asking anything out of her."
It's enormously frustrating. I'm not weak, I'm not stupid. I'm just dead tired, and treading uncharted waters. And I hate not being as tough as other people ("toughness" here describes a lack of emotional susceptibility, and is not to be confused with "strength," which is different altogether). I hate being sensitive.
But I'll be all right. I can honestly say that and not feel like I'm trying to wallpaper over a fist-sized hole in my chest. I don't feel hopeless, or feel like I'll feel this way forever. I expect I'll feel better tomorrow or the next day. And that, in itself, is a gift. For months I've had no expectation that I would ever feel better. This is a huge relief.
I found a tarot card on my walk yesterday: the five of swords.
It's a notoriously difficult card to interpret, from what I understand. It can signify a defeat, or a victory, or a Pyrrhic victory. It can mean you're too focused on the big things to see the small things that lie at your feet, and it can also mean that you're looking too closely at the little picture, and you need to broaden your concern a little bit. It can mean a minor setback or a great big one. It can mean that you've finally won an ongoing battle, or it can mean that the fight isn't over yet.
In short: a completely unhelpful omen that will no doubt only become clear in retrospect.
Goddamn, life is like that sometimes, isn't it?
Monday was hard. I knew it would be, but I had no idea. We went through the stuff at the grandparents' house preliminarily, and I came away with some things I'm glad to have. I thought I was fine, I truly did, but then I spent the rest of the day competely spacy, the way you are after you've taken a big hit. I think they still call it shock, even though that word implies both "sudden" and "surprising," and this was neither.
I was shaken.
I left the groceries in the car for two hours, I left my food in the oven for twice as long as it needed to be there, twice in a row I let water boil away in the kettle, and I found myself staring into space a lot. I only slept for about four hours that night, and only about four last night, too. Nightmares. (Interspersed with dreams of spanking Tom Welling, but we won't go there.)
Yesterday I was a complete basket case, which wasn't helped by the fact that I was starting out on a sleep deficit, and then everything in the world decided to piss me off.
First it was me finding out the movie I wanted on DVD isn't out yet, like Amazon said it was. They had The Covenant (the sucky version with Steven Strait) confused with another The Covenant (version the suckier with Edward Furlong), and the one I want won't be out for a good long time yet. Motherfucker.
Next it was the City of Tulsa coming down my street with huge diesel trucks to inspect the pipelines. Their engines were running outside my house all morning. Add to that the tree-sawing crew on the other side of us, and it was noisy. When you factor in the barking dogs, sent into Code Red by the workmen, it was apocalyptic. I am surprised that you, wherever you are, didn't hear it.
Then it was the dogs barking all by themselves. For two hours. No matter how much I yelled at them and no matter how many times I shot them with the BB pistol.
Then it was my own cats, tearassing around like someone had put peppercorns in their asses and howling at the top of their little lungs. For no reason at all.
Then it was TU. I am so. Fucking. Pissed. Apparently there was some kind of game - I really do not give a shit about sports, so I don't know what. Football, probably. The nonstop noise from the stadium started at four o'clock, and ended at eleven. It began with the marching band practicing - drums and oompah oompah music. Then it was yammering over the loudspeaker, and hollering, and fucking tornado sirens going off every time they scored a touchdown, I shit you not. And loud, LOUD country music blared over the loudspeakers at irregular intervals. What the fuck? Who CARES about that shit? Holy Christ! Die. All of you. DIE.
It's easier for me to deal with almost anything else than it is for me to deal with noise. It completely pulls me apart at the seams. I cannot function.
Now, add to all of this the constant feeling of being on edge, either about to attack someone or start crying at the drop of a hat. Maybe both.
Yeah.
I'm trying hard not to flip the fuck out, since there is no real reason to. I hate feeling like this, because it makes me feel profoundly weak and stupid.
"Oh, boo hoo. Look who doesn't want to go and sort quietly through piles of stuff for her own benefit. Wah, wah, waaah. Look who can't hold her shit together even though nobody's really asking anything out of her."
It's enormously frustrating. I'm not weak, I'm not stupid. I'm just dead tired, and treading uncharted waters. And I hate not being as tough as other people ("toughness" here describes a lack of emotional susceptibility, and is not to be confused with "strength," which is different altogether). I hate being sensitive.
But I'll be all right. I can honestly say that and not feel like I'm trying to wallpaper over a fist-sized hole in my chest. I don't feel hopeless, or feel like I'll feel this way forever. I expect I'll feel better tomorrow or the next day. And that, in itself, is a gift. For months I've had no expectation that I would ever feel better. This is a huge relief.
I found a tarot card on my walk yesterday: the five of swords.
It's a notoriously difficult card to interpret, from what I understand. It can signify a defeat, or a victory, or a Pyrrhic victory. It can mean you're too focused on the big things to see the small things that lie at your feet, and it can also mean that you're looking too closely at the little picture, and you need to broaden your concern a little bit. It can mean a minor setback or a great big one. It can mean that you've finally won an ongoing battle, or it can mean that the fight isn't over yet.
In short: a completely unhelpful omen that will no doubt only become clear in retrospect.
Goddamn, life is like that sometimes, isn't it?