I went to the doctor today to get the pin in my pinky out. Alas, the doctor told me my finger’s not quite healed enough for that yet. It frustrates me. My hand feels like there’s a lead weight in it. It’s stiff in the mornings, and sometimes for hours later, exercises or not. It feels like my pinky is dragging behind the other fingers. I can’t quite make a fist, and my grip in that hand is pretty weak. I don’t trust myself to hold anything with real weight in that hand, as I’ll drop it.
I feel depressed. I can’t do my job because of this. I keep feeling that this is my own fault. If I had done something else–anything else–I wouldn’t be here with a deformed hand that may as well be encased in cement for all the use it has. I was just walking to work that day–mentally aligning my day in my head as I went. I didn’t pay attention. I wasn’t watching. Because I wasn’t, I’m sitting here with a worthless hand.
It’s very hard to get up in the morning to go to work–the place where I’m not pulling my weight and being nothing but a drain. I wish I could stay in bed forever. I’d probably be of more use at home. It’s very hard to go to work and put on the mask, to pretend that everything is okay and I’m just fine. I don’t feel fine at all, and every day is a struggle.
I feel like I’m seeing the world through a film of Saran wrap. Things happen, and it’s not reaching me.
A couple friends gave me a sort of intervention last night, telling me that things are wrong since the surgery and need to be dealt with. I felt their concern (in some cases, alarm), but it was muffled. It’s like I’m watching it all happen while inside of this plastic suit. I felt their concern but it wasn’t my concern. It should have been and I know it, but it wasn’t.
It’s hard to care about anything. I know I should care, but I don’t have the emotion to give to it. The only thing I really feel is tiredness. I come home from work every day and nap for a couple hours, only to wake up feeling just as tired as before I laid down. I sleep at night and wake up feeling the same.
I feel like I’m running my life on a checklist. Get ready for work tomorrow, set out clothes, close the house, shut things down. Check, check, check. None of it matters. None of it affects me.
Maybe it’s a comfort. Maybe being muffled is a good thing. I’m just tired.
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.
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.
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.
WARNING: This post may contain whining. If this is not to your taste (and I don’t blame you at all), skip it.
I’m tired. I’m tired of getting up every morning, tired of the battle I fight every morning to get me up. It doesn’t matter what time I go to bed, I wake up (after waking up at least three times during the night) feeling absolutely wiped. I want to stay in bed and cry.
I’ve got this place to prettify, but I can’t work up the enthusiasm to do it. I’ve JUST unpacked my books a couple days ago. Yes, I’ve been here for a month. Yes, I love my books, and usually I unpack them first. I haven’t had the motivation.
I don’t want to eat. If I could I’d just sit here and live on Pepsi. Nothing tastes good when I eat it. None of it is spoiled or off in any way; it simply tastes like dust in my mouth. I eat only because I have to.
I hurt all the time. I take ibuprofen like candy, around the clock, every day. That’s 600-800mg every four to six hours, every day. My stomach’s fine (went to the doctor and had it checked), but I know this isn’t good.
Worse than all of this is the fact that I can’t work up the emotion to care. Yes, all of this stuff is bad, but when I think about them, all I can feel is a gray flat line. A “meh” feeling.
I wish I could get drunk, or sleep around the clock.
I’m supposed to be getting ready for bed. My tea is brewing and I’m tired, but sleep may not be coming now. What I’d really like to do is curl up in bed and cry. Not for any particular reason; I just want to cry.
Life feels so hard and not worth it. I don’t feel like eating or anything really. I didn’t even cook today; instead I sponged off my downstairs neighbors.
I feel ashamed. What happened to my will to take care of myself? My will to get things accomplished? It’s a struggle to get my worthless self out of bed every morning. It’s a struggle to get myself to do anything almost. I moved here and suddenly, I can’t handle life. I feel like I should come with a warning.
When will I be able to stop dragging everyone through my own personal mire and begin to feel regular again?