Favorites, favorites everywhere, and all I feel is meh

It’s my favorite time of year, heading into my favorite month (the calendar page for October shows a couple of fuzzy orange kittens hiding in a flower patch/garden, which is too precious). I should be falling over myself with happiness, but all I can muster is a lukewarm “Meh.”

I feel tired. I just had a couple days off, came home from work today and had a nap, but I feel totally exhausted. I had to fight myself in order to get a decent (well…decent-ish) meal into me. I have no energy for much of anything.

I wish I could cry or scream or throw things. But all that takes energy and emotion I don’t have.

It’s not really sleep I want–though it sounds really good and I feel like I could sleep for a few hundred years. I want rest. A simple hour without things bouncing and pinging in my head. An hour of quiet. I don’t even have that when I sleep, what with having an active imagination and being a vivid dreamer.

Sigh.

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It’s just emotion, taking me over

I’ve been posting here, but they’ve all been private things, not fit for public consumption. Don’t worry, I’ve not forgotten you.

I got a deck of Tarot cards for my birthday, and I’m trying to learn them. I keep dreaming about the Lovers card and the ace of cups. I’ve dreamed about those cards since the first day I slept with them beneath my pillow. Something scares me about those cards, both separately and together.

I said that to lead into my topic. I’m going to try to talk about emotions here.

I’m afraid of my emotions. Feeling them, having them. I wish I didn’t feel at all. My emotions have done nothing but give me stress and heartache.

There’s just too much of them. I feel too much, too strongly. I always have. Every time I try to feel a little–just a little, since the damn things will out no matter what I want–the whole boiling rears up and I have the devil’s own time trying to wrestle them back into some semblance of order.

I wish I didn’t feel, like I said. I can never feel the right things. My mother always told me that my responses were off and wrong, that I didn’t feel what “normal” people felt; she said it to me today in fact, in passing during a phone conversation.

My feelings are always inappropriate, in the wrong measure, for the wrong things, at the wrong times. I can never figure out when the “right” times are.

They won’t leave me alone. They haunt my dreams and leave me stressed. I wish it would stop.

A thing because I feel jumbled

Because I feel all jumbled up with the surgery coming up–I’ll post about that in a while–I wrote this. I don’t have a title for it.

I cried when you first came at twelve years, eleven months.
My life is done and over, was my first and secret thought.
I tried hard to be friends with you, to accept that you would be
Part of my life for the rest of my life–my preteen mind was blown at that.

Well, that friendship never came off.
You were hard to know, hard to love.
Painful, intrusive, and useless—even then I thought so.

You came to other women with ease, with consideration.
With me that never happened. You were never punctual.
I poured over my calendar the way my mother taught me,
But you never came when I thought. I could never plan for you,
As my mother told me I’d be able to do.

Oh, you were hard to love.

I dreaded your visits. I dreaded even more your attendants,
Bone-deep weariness, waves of sadness, and most of all the pain
That only seemed to grow as I got older.

I dreamed of the day when you would leave me.
You were useless to me; all you gave me was pain
And inconvenience, and embarrassing moments.
I wished—prayed—for your end.

And now, it’s here.

I cry now as you leave me for the last time at thirty-three years, eight months.
I am both glad to see you leave and sad that no more will I have to look forward
With dread, certainly—to your lackadaisical presence.

I’m startled that I feel this way, I who was your enemy for so long.
I salute you, worthy foe.

Thank you for what you gave me, for the things you’ve taught me.
Thank you even for the pain, as pain is the sign of growth.

I salute you, and wish you farewell, until the next go round.

The operation’s a killer: a dream

I dreamed that I was finally going in for the operation, but in order to get it, I had to die.

A doctor came into the room (she looked like my sister, funnily enough), holding a knife. She told me that I had to slit my wrists and bleed out in order to have this operation. When I told her I didn’t want to do that, she pulled out a syringe and said that she could inject me with whatever was in there and I’d die quickly.

For some reason I thought this a grand idea. I think I knew/suspected that I’d be revived. In the dream, I lay down in the hospital bed and got comfy. The doctor stepped forward and told me that I’d be waking up in the recovery room very soon.

She injected me and I closed my eyes. Everything began to become very slow, very weighted. I felt myself drifting off. The last thing I heard before I woke up to my alarm was the doctor saying to someone that I’d be dead soon.

“It was all a dream”: a dream

Welcome back to another episode of “Weird Dreams that I’ve had!”

In this one, I woke up in the bedroom I had when I lived with my mother. I looked around in bewilderment, as this was not what I was expecting to wake to.

“I’m not supposed to be here,” I said to everybody I could grab. “I have a place and a job in Texas; how did I get back here?”

All I got were boggled stares and weighted looks.

My mom takes me aside and said, “That sounds like a wonderful dream. But you have to realize that it was just that: a dream. It’s not real.”

“But it is! I’ve got a job and a place and I’m taking care of myself! I don’t know how I got back here, but I want to go home.”

My mom shook her head. “This is your home.”

I protested at length and with volume, and all they did was stare at me like I was crazy.

Poem

Be near to me, Lord, for I am lost.
Be near to me, Lady, for I am afraid.
I have lost my center. All around me is chaos.
I walk in the darkness, having lost my light.

My courage is gone, or was never there.
I cannot see the way out. Maybe there is no way out.

Lend me your hands. Help me walk through the darkness.
Guide me through the chaos, back to my center.
Help me find the light once more.

Pleasure protest: a dream

I dreamed that I was in the middle of a protest.

There were people holding signs on sticks, waving signs in the air. People shouting and singing and roaring.

I heard things like:

“Down with pleasure!”

“Hey, hey, ho ho, luxury items have got to go!”

There were signs showing comfy couches with strikes through them, people publicly burning silk and velvet. There were huge placards with the words DON’T TOUCH written large on them. People exhorted me to give up my pleasure items, to give them up, cast them away. It was like going to a revival.