Stupid Introspective Crap
I am so tired. A disagreement with the sleeping pills over who got to be in control of that relationship has left me temporarily without recourse, and now I'm sharing space with some wicked strong insomnia. I'm getting the better of it, but it isn't fun. It doesn't help that this insomnia appears to be psychological, not physiological. Short of drugs that will actually knock me out, nothing helps, because this isn't coming from a place of not being tired. It's coming from a place of not wanting to go to sleep.
Being awake is often preferable to sleep, inasmuch as one recent nocturnal offering involved a dream about being trapped inside a flooded Wal-Mart carrying a pillowcase containing a blonde woman's severed head. Not even the fact that I was apparently Tom Jane could redeem that one. It beats the dream about skinned animals, though. Christ, that one was awful.
I don't mind seeing blue dawn every morning, hearing the crows awaken. I don't mind being awake through the long watch of the night, alone. It is so quiet. But it eats my day, and it leaves me terribly alone at night. And right now, feeling alone freaks me out.
The past month has been infuriating.
I haven't been able to work in my studio area because it was first flooded and then reeking of mildew. Sargon cleaned up most of it for me, for which I thank him, and I will be able to get back to work there really soon. I've been able to draw, but not paint, which has sucked.
My car is in the shop again. The engine head self-annihilated so spectacularly the mechanic said he'd never seen anything quite like it. I now have a $1,500 repair bill to pay as soon as I go pick it up. I don't even know when that will be. On the one hand, I want my car back. On the other, I don't want to write that check, so it can take its sweet motherfucking time.
I am worried about all manner of house and money things, long-term future things. I can't do anything about any of it right now, but that doesn't stop me from fretting. Actually, I am fretting because there is nothing I can do, which is really dumb when you think about it, but there you go.* Being helpless just makes me gnaw on myself.
Also, I feel like crap, and I have no idea why. Like I ate something that borderline disagrees with me, you know? Only it's all the time. I think it's stress. This has the sour feeling of the pre-panic-attack oogies, only without the panic attack. It's got to be stress.
I thought my general feeling of malaise was because I haven't managed to accomplish the stuff I meant to accomplish this week. Sargon thinks my malaise is because I'm having residual ick from visiting my grandparents' house on Sunday. There's nothing in there but the remnants of the estate sale; the most useless and random detritus, the last sad remnants of their lives. Frankly, I've been avoiding going over there, and that makes me feel both cowardly and low, since there's stuff that really needs to get done. So we needed to see if the keys we got fit the lock, and of course I was stupid and had to prove I'm not a coward, so I went in. It was disturbing, but I thought I was okay. Maybe I'm not. Maybe Sargon's right.
Usually, if I think on it for a while, I know what's bothering me. Usually I have an answer, or one is handed to me in a dream or by one of the resident voices in my head. Not this time. This time I'm drawing a blank, and I don't really know what's wrong. Am I worried about house crap? Is it ennui from visiting the empty ruin of a place that used to be like home? Is it frustration from being unable to work properly? Is it PMS? Am I simply approaching another lycanthropic episode?
All of the above?
I don't want to give the impression that things suck beyond all hope of redemption. Things are pretty much okay. Actually, in some ways, things are swell. I'm just so horribly tired and freaked out (and I don't know why) that it's hard to feel upbeat.
Feh. Emelia is in my lap right now being little and adorable. The other two are tearassing around, attacking each other, Fish, random carpet molecules, and my feet. I have a shitload of kava kava within reach, pictures of Tom Welling's naked ass on my desktop, and some really neat art ideas in my head, so I'm going to settle down and enjoy what I've got.
Oh, hey! I also have vodka! Score. Vodka and Tom Welling's naked ass. . . . This could be a good night.
* I think if I had to pick one word to describe my feelings, it would be "dumb." Now, I enjoy lots of dumb things, so this doesn't mean I wish I didn't have feelings, even the dumb ones. It just means that I can quite clearly see that most of my feelings are impractical and counterproductive, and sometimes even completely illogical. Ergo, dumb.
Being awake is often preferable to sleep, inasmuch as one recent nocturnal offering involved a dream about being trapped inside a flooded Wal-Mart carrying a pillowcase containing a blonde woman's severed head. Not even the fact that I was apparently Tom Jane could redeem that one. It beats the dream about skinned animals, though. Christ, that one was awful.
I don't mind seeing blue dawn every morning, hearing the crows awaken. I don't mind being awake through the long watch of the night, alone. It is so quiet. But it eats my day, and it leaves me terribly alone at night. And right now, feeling alone freaks me out.
The past month has been infuriating.
I haven't been able to work in my studio area because it was first flooded and then reeking of mildew. Sargon cleaned up most of it for me, for which I thank him, and I will be able to get back to work there really soon. I've been able to draw, but not paint, which has sucked.
My car is in the shop again. The engine head self-annihilated so spectacularly the mechanic said he'd never seen anything quite like it. I now have a $1,500 repair bill to pay as soon as I go pick it up. I don't even know when that will be. On the one hand, I want my car back. On the other, I don't want to write that check, so it can take its sweet motherfucking time.
I am worried about all manner of house and money things, long-term future things. I can't do anything about any of it right now, but that doesn't stop me from fretting. Actually, I am fretting because there is nothing I can do, which is really dumb when you think about it, but there you go.* Being helpless just makes me gnaw on myself.
Also, I feel like crap, and I have no idea why. Like I ate something that borderline disagrees with me, you know? Only it's all the time. I think it's stress. This has the sour feeling of the pre-panic-attack oogies, only without the panic attack. It's got to be stress.
I thought my general feeling of malaise was because I haven't managed to accomplish the stuff I meant to accomplish this week. Sargon thinks my malaise is because I'm having residual ick from visiting my grandparents' house on Sunday. There's nothing in there but the remnants of the estate sale; the most useless and random detritus, the last sad remnants of their lives. Frankly, I've been avoiding going over there, and that makes me feel both cowardly and low, since there's stuff that really needs to get done. So we needed to see if the keys we got fit the lock, and of course I was stupid and had to prove I'm not a coward, so I went in. It was disturbing, but I thought I was okay. Maybe I'm not. Maybe Sargon's right.
Usually, if I think on it for a while, I know what's bothering me. Usually I have an answer, or one is handed to me in a dream or by one of the resident voices in my head. Not this time. This time I'm drawing a blank, and I don't really know what's wrong. Am I worried about house crap? Is it ennui from visiting the empty ruin of a place that used to be like home? Is it frustration from being unable to work properly? Is it PMS? Am I simply approaching another lycanthropic episode?
All of the above?
I don't want to give the impression that things suck beyond all hope of redemption. Things are pretty much okay. Actually, in some ways, things are swell. I'm just so horribly tired and freaked out (and I don't know why) that it's hard to feel upbeat.
Feh. Emelia is in my lap right now being little and adorable. The other two are tearassing around, attacking each other, Fish, random carpet molecules, and my feet. I have a shitload of kava kava within reach, pictures of Tom Welling's naked ass on my desktop, and some really neat art ideas in my head, so I'm going to settle down and enjoy what I've got.
Oh, hey! I also have vodka! Score. Vodka and Tom Welling's naked ass. . . . This could be a good night.
* I think if I had to pick one word to describe my feelings, it would be "dumb." Now, I enjoy lots of dumb things, so this doesn't mean I wish I didn't have feelings, even the dumb ones. It just means that I can quite clearly see that most of my feelings are impractical and counterproductive, and sometimes even completely illogical. Ergo, dumb.