I'll think of a clever title later.
I hope everyone had a not-too-terribly-sucky week, though I know some of you had a really rough time. I'm sorry about that, by the way, and I am thinking about you.
I'm doing okay. The cleaning/organizing in the studio continues. It is wonderful and making me happy every day that I go in there and see that I've made so much progress. I'm kicking myself for not taking before and after pictures. Not that it's beautiful now, but at least there are surfaces, and most of my stuff is where it is supposed to be.
Smooch tipped his ginormous water bowl over onto the bathroom carpet twice, and neither time did I notice for hours and hours. I tried to soak it up and dry it, but it was too late, and it sprouted mildew. We ripped the carpet out -- something we've been meaning to do since we moved in -- and will be replacing it with tile. Which is fantastic, really, and I am looking forward to not having carpet in my bathroom -- I mean, really, bathroom carpet . . . that's just nasty -- but oh god, I have to get on my knees and scrub that fucking floor with a brush and rags, and I can only do a tiny bit of it at a time because the bathroom is so small that there is not enough room for my fat ass AND a box to collect dust and grit AND a slop bucket, so I have to put one or the other or sometimes both behind me, which leads to lots of twisting. I could handle it if it weren't for the twisting. My back is a little annoyed with me. I'm over half done, though, so soon it won't be a problem and I can feel happy about having gotten it out of the way.
Personally, I'm all right, I guess, just a lot of crappy stuff going on under the surface, stuff I'd love to talk about but there's no resolving it and nowhere for the conversation to go, so there's no point. I don't mean that to sound despairing, it's really not, it's just the truth. There's only so many times and ways you can say "I'd like to let the world know that think being crazy sucks, I think the meds keeping me from flinging myself from a battlement might be murdering my creative life, I haven't got the money to get the kind of treatment I think I really need, and I hate everything about the way I look down to the very last molecule of my being because it is not only almost entirely outside the bounds of current social boundaries of attractiveness by which I still measure myself despite knowing better, it is flat-out the wrong body in the first place, and is completely incapable of letting me choose a physical sex at will. Also, I've seriously thought about going back to starving myself every single day this week, just so I can feel like I have control over one tiny part of my life. JSYK!" before you bore the crap out of yourself.
Also, my face is breaking out so horribly that it hurts to do anything but sit perfectly still, and maybe drink something. Laying down, putting my head in my hands, scratching my face, eating, yawning, laughing, talking, blowing my nose, washing my face, smiling, kissing the cat, all of it. Hurts. Actually, sitting still hurts, too, just not much.
Also, I look like something somebody left on a hotplate for too long. I actually feel rotten about going out or seeing anyone, it is just that bad. I'm not some porcelain-skinned beauty queen complaining stridently about two pimples, this is, like, crazy awful. And I didn't do anything to earn it except have shitty hormones and probably rosacea, but hey, who can afford an actual dermatologist? All y'all's generosity is keeping us afloat, but we still can't afford to do anything medical-wise but what we really, really have to do.
I would feel better about having horrible painful gross things on my face if I'd at least taken a pop shot in the face during a ferocious chainsaw fight with a priapic zombie-goat-man stitched together from the decaying remains of plague victims and syphilitic goat whores.
You're welcome for that image, by the way. You can thank me by not giving me advice. I've got stuff for it, it just isn't working yet.
So I guess I'm really not that all right at all. But I'm pretending. Because I'm just sick and tired of the alternative.
There are good things. I have a husband who loves me, who takes care of and entertains me. I have a beautiful, sweet cat that smiles at me with his funny face all full of beaming pride at being my special boy. I have amazing friends I love unreservedly and who make me feel better just by being, like, my friends and stuff. I have some fantastic imaginary people who don't mind helping me muck out the mess that is my brain. I have a box full of pony hair and another of bait ponies. I have a roof over my head and a computer and clean water.
Could be way worse.
X-posted from Dreamwidth. Comment count:
I'm doing okay. The cleaning/organizing in the studio continues. It is wonderful and making me happy every day that I go in there and see that I've made so much progress. I'm kicking myself for not taking before and after pictures. Not that it's beautiful now, but at least there are surfaces, and most of my stuff is where it is supposed to be.
Smooch tipped his ginormous water bowl over onto the bathroom carpet twice, and neither time did I notice for hours and hours. I tried to soak it up and dry it, but it was too late, and it sprouted mildew. We ripped the carpet out -- something we've been meaning to do since we moved in -- and will be replacing it with tile. Which is fantastic, really, and I am looking forward to not having carpet in my bathroom -- I mean, really, bathroom carpet . . . that's just nasty -- but oh god, I have to get on my knees and scrub that fucking floor with a brush and rags, and I can only do a tiny bit of it at a time because the bathroom is so small that there is not enough room for my fat ass AND a box to collect dust and grit AND a slop bucket, so I have to put one or the other or sometimes both behind me, which leads to lots of twisting. I could handle it if it weren't for the twisting. My back is a little annoyed with me. I'm over half done, though, so soon it won't be a problem and I can feel happy about having gotten it out of the way.
Personally, I'm all right, I guess, just a lot of crappy stuff going on under the surface, stuff I'd love to talk about but there's no resolving it and nowhere for the conversation to go, so there's no point. I don't mean that to sound despairing, it's really not, it's just the truth. There's only so many times and ways you can say "I'd like to let the world know that think being crazy sucks, I think the meds keeping me from flinging myself from a battlement might be murdering my creative life, I haven't got the money to get the kind of treatment I think I really need, and I hate everything about the way I look down to the very last molecule of my being because it is not only almost entirely outside the bounds of current social boundaries of attractiveness by which I still measure myself despite knowing better, it is flat-out the wrong body in the first place, and is completely incapable of letting me choose a physical sex at will. Also, I've seriously thought about going back to starving myself every single day this week, just so I can feel like I have control over one tiny part of my life. JSYK!" before you bore the crap out of yourself.
Also, my face is breaking out so horribly that it hurts to do anything but sit perfectly still, and maybe drink something. Laying down, putting my head in my hands, scratching my face, eating, yawning, laughing, talking, blowing my nose, washing my face, smiling, kissing the cat, all of it. Hurts. Actually, sitting still hurts, too, just not much.
Also, I look like something somebody left on a hotplate for too long. I actually feel rotten about going out or seeing anyone, it is just that bad. I'm not some porcelain-skinned beauty queen complaining stridently about two pimples, this is, like, crazy awful. And I didn't do anything to earn it except have shitty hormones and probably rosacea, but hey, who can afford an actual dermatologist? All y'all's generosity is keeping us afloat, but we still can't afford to do anything medical-wise but what we really, really have to do.
I would feel better about having horrible painful gross things on my face if I'd at least taken a pop shot in the face during a ferocious chainsaw fight with a priapic zombie-goat-man stitched together from the decaying remains of plague victims and syphilitic goat whores.
You're welcome for that image, by the way. You can thank me by not giving me advice. I've got stuff for it, it just isn't working yet.
So I guess I'm really not that all right at all. But I'm pretending. Because I'm just sick and tired of the alternative.
There are good things. I have a husband who loves me, who takes care of and entertains me. I have a beautiful, sweet cat that smiles at me with his funny face all full of beaming pride at being my special boy. I have amazing friends I love unreservedly and who make me feel better just by being, like, my friends and stuff. I have some fantastic imaginary people who don't mind helping me muck out the mess that is my brain. I have a box full of pony hair and another of bait ponies. I have a roof over my head and a computer and clean water.
Could be way worse.
X-posted from Dreamwidth. Comment count: