Feeling at home and room musings

I’ve been spending the last week or so in “pack ALL the things!” mode. As a result, my bedroom looks very bare now. It already has the feeling that barely used rooms have.

The funniest thing about this is that it was harder to leave the room I used to have–right next door to this one–when I moved the first time. Then it literally hurt to leave, and the day I walked out with my bags packed, I felt grief. Not at leaving (I was relieved to be getting away from the madhouse), but at leaving that room, which had been mine since we moved into this house.

Right now I sleep in the room that used to belong to the Bestower of Righteous Silliness, and it doesn’t make me feel grief at the thought of leaving it. It’s always felt temporary to me, and because it felt that way, I didn’t bother to decorate it beyond putting up new calendars every year. I had things sitting around as you do, books and things, but nothing that screamed possession. This room doesn’t feel like mine–though I’ve used the correct possessive pronouns since I moved back.

The other room, the one that was mine until I moved, does still feel like mine, though other people have been in possession of it since I came back (Colonel Crazy had the room when I returned, which is why I didn’t take it back, and since the parental units are in the process of losing the house, moving back into it once it was empty was a waste of time).

I walk in there, and I feel comfortable (though I was sure to deactivate all my protective wards before I left it). I feel good and happy there. In this room I feel like a guest.

I wonder if there’s a way to have a “home” feeling no matter where you go?


Tactile ruminations

Let’s add another thing to the list of things that are wrong with me right now. I’m tired, stressed, have forgotten what it is to have a normal, predictable appetite, or a normal sleep schedule.

Now I have to add that I have this compulsion to touch everything. Everything, doesn’t seem to matter what it is. It’s like my skin has millions of eyes, and now all those eyes want to see everything there is to see.

I know that sounds creepy. It feels creepy to feel this way.

I’m trying to indulge this thing by touching as much as possible (without being overt about it).  It’s not helping; it doesn’t seem to be going away, or becoming less.

I don’t need this on top of everything else. What good is it to feel this way when nothing I’m doing is helping?

Fall voices

This is one of the weirdest dreams I’ve ever had. I don’t know if I can describe it well enough.

I was in a field in a deserted area. It was around this time of year, but fresher weather than I’m experiencing right now–more what I consider fall weather. The air was full of the smells of fall–moist earth, the smell of warm fur, the scent of burning.  There were woods at my back, dressed in gold, red, brown.

I was holding something in my hands, and standing before a hole in the ground. The plan was to drop the something into the hole in the ground as an offering. Just as I was about to drop it in, a voice issued from the hole.

I won’t share what the voice said here; what I can say is that it shook me to my very bones, and I turned and ran, leaving whatever it was I was planning to drop into the hole right there, undropped.

I woke up shivering and afraid.


How bad a sign is it that the first thing you think upon opening your eyes in the morning is “Oh God, why am I still here?”

That’s what went through my mind this morning; it’s what goes through my mind every morning.

I got up and managed to go through the motions of the day, which included making a call to the cable company at my mother’s behest, because “the cable’s not working” (it’s off because you haven’t paid the bill, Sherlock! I don’t have to call anybody to tell you that); going to buy some trash bags that my dad said he would get on Friday, but somehow managed to “forget” to buy all weekend; listening to my mom wail about the electric bill and how she has “all these adults living here, but nobody wants to help” her pay it; hearing my mom praise the Lord of Lassitude for his “great parenting” (the only one of his kids he pays attention to is his son, and that’s because he’s a boy); and putting a meal out for the lot of them that I know will get complaints because there’s not enough.  I’ve been up for six hours as of this writing, and I feel completely wiped out.

I wish I knew what was in me to make me want to keep waking up to this wasteland. I hurt all the time: physically, mentally, emotionally. I have stomach problems and I eat painkillers like they’re candy. I’m tired all the time, but I don’t sleep worth a damn. What sleep I do get is filled with crazy dreams of people stalking me, or worse, of needy people holding their hands out to me, wanting, always wanting, and I’m standing there bare with absolutely nothing to give.

I have Ito bribe myself to get out of bed every day. Example: “if you get up and dress and do your day, later you can sit down and read the book of the moment.” I basically live in my bedroom, since the sight and sound of my family ties my stomach up in knots. I have no appetite, since the thought, sight, and smell of food turns my stomach (you didn’t think I actually ate any of the stuff I make for the family, did you?). When I do eat, it’s a guaranteed stomachache.

Yes, I wish very actively to be dead. I must be some kind of masochist to stay here in this hell.

There is a way out, sure. It seems like it’s a long way off. I think my will (or whatever it is that’s keeping me up and going right now) will wear out and break before the end.