My closets used to be so organized, now there's spring-loaded hinges...
Every day in my mailbox, because I am THAT KID, I get the Word of the Day in my inbox. A few days ago, I got this:imbroglio \im-BROHL-yoh\, noun:
1. A complicated and embarrassing state of things.
2. A confused or complicated disagreement or misunderstanding.
3. An intricate, complicated plot, as of a drama or work of fiction.
4. A confused mass; a tangle.
I thought two things: First, how appropriate. Second, what a lovely substitution for the word "clusterfuck."
It really is so appropriate. My brain is eating itself lately. I've become that friend that I dropped four years ago because I'm repeating the same thing, over and over. It's disheartening really. While I used to have interesting stories of clients, my daily drivel revolves around a solitary subject. I tell more people to get more feedback; they do the typical thing. They smile, or give frowny faces when appropriate. They offer advice that I quickly dispel. They agree with me, then I disagree profoundly. They do what I tell them to do, and instead of accepting it, I think it's all a lie and continue to badger the subject.
I sometimes don't even know why I talk to them anymore. I don't think I'd talk to me.
It's coming, I know. I feel the old urges coming back, those lost impulses I had years ago. I know it's my method of escape, as if my move to Maryland wasn't enough escape from my old life. I can sit and chat about what I'm cooking for dinner, or how Sgt. Slaughter screwed up my life today, but in the back of my head? Even while you're talking and I'm focusing, listening, adding appropriate uh-huhs and what you think is a heartfelt guffaw, my brain is still spinning.
I know where they are. We laugh about it, joke about our pasts, about how bad we were when we were younger. We talk about our parents, or our friends, or even some of my clients and how hard it was for them.
I now understand why it runs rampant in my family. Such an escape. As a clinician, I'll stand here and say that you shouldn't do it. You shouldn't need to escape. You should face your demons. You should use Momma's mantra and "fix it or fuck it."
But in my head? The part that isn't always a clinician? The part that remembers those days, and the feelings, and God, how free I was? That little bastard is sitting there, twirling his fingers, waiting for me to scratch that itch. Scratch it so damned hard that I end up bleeding. Scratch it so hard that I don't end up counting, so I don't text or call. My escape turns into a fade, and I become that story on a raggedy couch.
It was easier when I left Florida. I had more distractions when I moved to Pennsylvania. I finally got out of an abusive relationship, packed up my Kermit, and drove North to my new life. I rarely talk to anyone from Florida; the only person I have been in contact with is on LJ, of all things, and while we were close, I never thought we would still read each other and comment. The people I thought would be in my life forever are yet another story. I use them as reference points, no longer a pivotal point in my life.
And now we come to here. This interesting little point in my life where I have made the move for a new environment, and I'm craving the old. Despite everything the House did to me, I am remembering glory days. Despite how bottles were broken in my parking lot, I remember how awesome Apartment 6 was. And I'm longing for the comfort that my home would be filled with people no matter what time or even if I was home.
I did this to myself. I know I moved, and why I did. No, I don't regret it. But now, it's just making it harder to push through and get out of my head when I feel like there could have been something else to do in that damned Valley. If I had gotten a better job, or earned my degree and made more money, or moved into a snazzier apartment, or fell in love, or had some hard-core fucking logical ties to that forsaken Valley!
Jesus.
I know that this is healthier than I was; I know the House was slowly killing me, and that the Floor didn't matter enough for me to care. I know this job, while it is so drastically different from how I was, it is a welcome change to how I was. And I know moving into a new place should have restarted and rebooted my mind for another seven years.
But this brain is not healthy. And large parts of me are not. I am tongue-tied and verbally explosive in the same breath. I have become my own damned conundrum. While I am always honest, brutally so, I am so sly to avoid conversations and twist them so you forget the questions you're asking.
I need more boxes, I never assigned boxes? How can a woman who has known me for years know exactly what to say to me to make my brain mush? "There is no box." No, there is no fucking box, and I don't know how to fucking deal, kthnx. I can't close a door to a closet when I don't even know where my boxes even are. How did I used to assign boxes?
Can't you just put yourself away? All of you! Into the closet! And shut the damned door!
I need this, I can't live without this, it's breaking me, I need to detach...
... how is any of that healthy?
1. A complicated and embarrassing state of things.
2. A confused or complicated disagreement or misunderstanding.
3. An intricate, complicated plot, as of a drama or work of fiction.
4. A confused mass; a tangle.
I thought two things: First, how appropriate. Second, what a lovely substitution for the word "clusterfuck."
It really is so appropriate. My brain is eating itself lately. I've become that friend that I dropped four years ago because I'm repeating the same thing, over and over. It's disheartening really. While I used to have interesting stories of clients, my daily drivel revolves around a solitary subject. I tell more people to get more feedback; they do the typical thing. They smile, or give frowny faces when appropriate. They offer advice that I quickly dispel. They agree with me, then I disagree profoundly. They do what I tell them to do, and instead of accepting it, I think it's all a lie and continue to badger the subject.
I sometimes don't even know why I talk to them anymore. I don't think I'd talk to me.
It's coming, I know. I feel the old urges coming back, those lost impulses I had years ago. I know it's my method of escape, as if my move to Maryland wasn't enough escape from my old life. I can sit and chat about what I'm cooking for dinner, or how Sgt. Slaughter screwed up my life today, but in the back of my head? Even while you're talking and I'm focusing, listening, adding appropriate uh-huhs and what you think is a heartfelt guffaw, my brain is still spinning.
I know where they are. We laugh about it, joke about our pasts, about how bad we were when we were younger. We talk about our parents, or our friends, or even some of my clients and how hard it was for them.
I now understand why it runs rampant in my family. Such an escape. As a clinician, I'll stand here and say that you shouldn't do it. You shouldn't need to escape. You should face your demons. You should use Momma's mantra and "fix it or fuck it."
But in my head? The part that isn't always a clinician? The part that remembers those days, and the feelings, and God, how free I was? That little bastard is sitting there, twirling his fingers, waiting for me to scratch that itch. Scratch it so damned hard that I end up bleeding. Scratch it so hard that I don't end up counting, so I don't text or call. My escape turns into a fade, and I become that story on a raggedy couch.
It was easier when I left Florida. I had more distractions when I moved to Pennsylvania. I finally got out of an abusive relationship, packed up my Kermit, and drove North to my new life. I rarely talk to anyone from Florida; the only person I have been in contact with is on LJ, of all things, and while we were close, I never thought we would still read each other and comment. The people I thought would be in my life forever are yet another story. I use them as reference points, no longer a pivotal point in my life.
And now we come to here. This interesting little point in my life where I have made the move for a new environment, and I'm craving the old. Despite everything the House did to me, I am remembering glory days. Despite how bottles were broken in my parking lot, I remember how awesome Apartment 6 was. And I'm longing for the comfort that my home would be filled with people no matter what time or even if I was home.
I did this to myself. I know I moved, and why I did. No, I don't regret it. But now, it's just making it harder to push through and get out of my head when I feel like there could have been something else to do in that damned Valley. If I had gotten a better job, or earned my degree and made more money, or moved into a snazzier apartment, or fell in love, or had some hard-core fucking logical ties to that forsaken Valley!
Jesus.
I know that this is healthier than I was; I know the House was slowly killing me, and that the Floor didn't matter enough for me to care. I know this job, while it is so drastically different from how I was, it is a welcome change to how I was. And I know moving into a new place should have restarted and rebooted my mind for another seven years.
But this brain is not healthy. And large parts of me are not. I am tongue-tied and verbally explosive in the same breath. I have become my own damned conundrum. While I am always honest, brutally so, I am so sly to avoid conversations and twist them so you forget the questions you're asking.
I need more boxes, I never assigned boxes? How can a woman who has known me for years know exactly what to say to me to make my brain mush? "There is no box." No, there is no fucking box, and I don't know how to fucking deal, kthnx. I can't close a door to a closet when I don't even know where my boxes even are. How did I used to assign boxes?
Can't you just put yourself away? All of you! Into the closet! And shut the damned door!
I need this, I can't live without this, it's breaking me, I need to detach...
... how is any of that healthy?