(no subject)
i feel as if i've dropped off the face of the earth, even to myself. I am a phone that no one bothered to plug in but everyone waits for to ring. Totally non-functional.
I've gotten accustomed to staying inside the house for days on end, never seeing the light of day except to walk my dog or the occasional journey to the park. I don't know if this is a place i can easily extrapolate myself from. It's not that i love this leisure that much, it's just hard to swim in molasses, much less pull yourself out of it onto dry, desert land like santa fe. I have little money, no job and a car that has a thousand things wrong with it.
The stars seem to be crossed for everything, for getting out of here, for staying here. The house we have are now all living in is falling apart under our feet. Sockets are blowing, things are catching on fire, no hot water, broken stove, heater blown, plagues of god, etc.
when i was little and summer vacation would near an end, and i'd spent the summer watching tv, making experimental calls to psychic hotlines while my mom was at work, and sleeping, i'd wonder if by the time i got back to school if i would remember how to write. It's an odd thing to wonder but since i'd go entire summers without putting pen to paper i wondered if i would forget how to handwrite anything. To remedy this i started keeping journals. I wrote about everything, at first limiting myself to one page a day which quickly turned into 3 or 4 pages a day. Recently, all grown up, i went back and read whatever it was that i had written. It was all about my mother. Every single damned journal entry i ever made was about my mother. How i was worried about her, how i was afraid of her, how i was so nervous that my whole wellbeing depended on this one single person. It made me remember these times when my mother would get so mad about something, she'd throw chairs across the room and scream at nothing and then at the climax of it she'd get in her car and drive away. Rarely did she get that mad at me, and i never knew what made her so mad. I wrote it off to menopause but then that menopause lasted about fifteen years. that's not just menopause. I had forgotten how scared of her i could be. i'm not saying i blame her for everything that went wrong in my childhood, even though there would be no one else to blame, i just was shocked that of all the things to write about in my journal at 7, 8, 9 and up it was all about her.
i want a life apart from her. everytime i get into one of these funks, this depression and reclusivity, it's when i've been too long around her. I love her but she's such a demonstrative person, that around her i lose my drives and much of my electricity. i submit to her whims and demands and energy.
i've got to get out of here and remember that there are other people besides her in my life.
as an aside, microdermabrasion is crap.
I've gotten accustomed to staying inside the house for days on end, never seeing the light of day except to walk my dog or the occasional journey to the park. I don't know if this is a place i can easily extrapolate myself from. It's not that i love this leisure that much, it's just hard to swim in molasses, much less pull yourself out of it onto dry, desert land like santa fe. I have little money, no job and a car that has a thousand things wrong with it.
The stars seem to be crossed for everything, for getting out of here, for staying here. The house we have are now all living in is falling apart under our feet. Sockets are blowing, things are catching on fire, no hot water, broken stove, heater blown, plagues of god, etc.
when i was little and summer vacation would near an end, and i'd spent the summer watching tv, making experimental calls to psychic hotlines while my mom was at work, and sleeping, i'd wonder if by the time i got back to school if i would remember how to write. It's an odd thing to wonder but since i'd go entire summers without putting pen to paper i wondered if i would forget how to handwrite anything. To remedy this i started keeping journals. I wrote about everything, at first limiting myself to one page a day which quickly turned into 3 or 4 pages a day. Recently, all grown up, i went back and read whatever it was that i had written. It was all about my mother. Every single damned journal entry i ever made was about my mother. How i was worried about her, how i was afraid of her, how i was so nervous that my whole wellbeing depended on this one single person. It made me remember these times when my mother would get so mad about something, she'd throw chairs across the room and scream at nothing and then at the climax of it she'd get in her car and drive away. Rarely did she get that mad at me, and i never knew what made her so mad. I wrote it off to menopause but then that menopause lasted about fifteen years. that's not just menopause. I had forgotten how scared of her i could be. i'm not saying i blame her for everything that went wrong in my childhood, even though there would be no one else to blame, i just was shocked that of all the things to write about in my journal at 7, 8, 9 and up it was all about her.
i want a life apart from her. everytime i get into one of these funks, this depression and reclusivity, it's when i've been too long around her. I love her but she's such a demonstrative person, that around her i lose my drives and much of my electricity. i submit to her whims and demands and energy.
i've got to get out of here and remember that there are other people besides her in my life.
as an aside, microdermabrasion is crap.