I want to sit here and write about how great it is to have this nice guy in my life, even if I can't figure out what the hell it's all about. To say, it's nice coming home in the middle of the night with my hair smelling like smoke and him and being tired and sore. It's nice to have that on-the-edge kind of feeling because there's someone you'd jump into bed with this second if he were here. It's nice to feel wanted in that way. It's just... nice. And kind of hot.
And then there's this other part of me that wants to wander down some other path, one that leads to decisions and conclusions. That path can't include this guy. Not now, not ever. He is Mr. Right Now, and I hate to say that, because it's dismissive. But I don't know how not to dismiss him, because he's... less than I need him to be. Another stray puppy, and I am not keeping any more strays, even if they want to come in the door. And there's no real indication of that.
So what I want is to sit back, and just be here and think my happy erotic thoughts, and, for once in my life, not want this to be more. But at the same time, not allow it to be less.
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
Monday, July 30, 2012
Love
It's what we all want to believe in. No matter how awful the relationship, how awful the result, we want to believe that we were in love, that we were loved.
The apex of that for me was John, the man I thought of for so long as the love of my life. And I suppose that in a way, he was, at least in terms of the amount of time that I spent thinking about him, in one way or another. But without opening that giant can of worms... there will be another day for that... at the end of the day, he left me. And even that is a bit too... I don't know. He didn't leave me. He dumped me by refusing to answer the phone when I called, because he didn't have the guts to talk to me. And when, in a moment of stupid, I called him again months later, he lied to me again, and I believed it, in a way. And lied to me again when he fobbed me off with a nonsense story. But still, I held him in my heart. I made excuses for him. I took words whispered in the dark and hung on to them. I believed with all my heart that he did love me, that we were star-crossed lovers just destined to be apart. In the long nights when everything was bad, I'd go in my head to that time; I'd recreate every second of that time together.
I wrote about that in the blog that I deleted, the blog that Michael read, because I couldn't bear that he had read that. But it was the truth of the moment.
But ironically, I see all too clearly how it was in no way the truth, that it was fantasy born of desperation and misery, no more real than sending my head into the imaginary worlds of my childhood. And I wish that the untruth hadn't had so much power to hurt, especially since it turned out to be a distortion born of pain.
That's not what I really wanted to talk about, though. It's that every time I've told that story to someone... very rarely, because it is too much pain... I've made excuses again and again, for the man I thought I loved, the man I had to believe loved me. I couldn't just say, it was a mistake that I knew I was making, a hope that didn't come true. I couldn't just admit that he cared so little about me that he would rather inflict a staggering and unnecessary degree of pain rather than tell me unpleasant truths himself.
It's true, though. We spent a year and a half together online; we spent ten days in person, and then, hey, he was just not that into me. Or whatever. And I couldn't let go of the grand romance.
It's what sent me to Michael to begin with. It's what caused me to screw up any number of things in my personal and professional life. It's what put me on the path to here. I'm not blaming him, and I'm not even blaming myself. It's what happened, a lifetime ago. It's an old story, except for where it took me.
It was just a story. But I had to make it a love story.
The apex of that for me was John, the man I thought of for so long as the love of my life. And I suppose that in a way, he was, at least in terms of the amount of time that I spent thinking about him, in one way or another. But without opening that giant can of worms... there will be another day for that... at the end of the day, he left me. And even that is a bit too... I don't know. He didn't leave me. He dumped me by refusing to answer the phone when I called, because he didn't have the guts to talk to me. And when, in a moment of stupid, I called him again months later, he lied to me again, and I believed it, in a way. And lied to me again when he fobbed me off with a nonsense story. But still, I held him in my heart. I made excuses for him. I took words whispered in the dark and hung on to them. I believed with all my heart that he did love me, that we were star-crossed lovers just destined to be apart. In the long nights when everything was bad, I'd go in my head to that time; I'd recreate every second of that time together.
I wrote about that in the blog that I deleted, the blog that Michael read, because I couldn't bear that he had read that. But it was the truth of the moment.
But ironically, I see all too clearly how it was in no way the truth, that it was fantasy born of desperation and misery, no more real than sending my head into the imaginary worlds of my childhood. And I wish that the untruth hadn't had so much power to hurt, especially since it turned out to be a distortion born of pain.
That's not what I really wanted to talk about, though. It's that every time I've told that story to someone... very rarely, because it is too much pain... I've made excuses again and again, for the man I thought I loved, the man I had to believe loved me. I couldn't just say, it was a mistake that I knew I was making, a hope that didn't come true. I couldn't just admit that he cared so little about me that he would rather inflict a staggering and unnecessary degree of pain rather than tell me unpleasant truths himself.
It's true, though. We spent a year and a half together online; we spent ten days in person, and then, hey, he was just not that into me. Or whatever. And I couldn't let go of the grand romance.
It's what sent me to Michael to begin with. It's what caused me to screw up any number of things in my personal and professional life. It's what put me on the path to here. I'm not blaming him, and I'm not even blaming myself. It's what happened, a lifetime ago. It's an old story, except for where it took me.
It was just a story. But I had to make it a love story.
Sunday, July 29, 2012
Not Me
I've spent most of my life with a sex life that's either been boring or something verging on awful. And I have second-guessed myself a billion times about this. I mean, after a while, you think, this has to be me, the common ingredient is me.
Well, maybe not. Maybe it is about finding someone who's actually a good lover. Surprise. I mean, I have no relative scale here that makes sense. There's just the first part of my life (boring and insufficient), the middle part (clueless and troubled), and the recent part (damaged and incompatible). With Michael, especially... I mean, objectively, so many strikes against anything working out. The physical issues, but even more than that, the mental issues that made his tastes fetishistic and extreme and made it so difficult for him to have intimacy of a kind that anyone else could recognize, at least during sex. It makes me so sad to say that, to acknowledge the truth of that, one of the greatest losses in a marriage filled with loss. I feel, always, that I am betraying him, and I say these things, and I remember when we used to sleep holding hands all night, and my heart just aches.
So long ago and not so long ago.
But he always blamed me. Because, I think, he could not listen to me. Because he couldn't give me what I needed the most, the tenderness and affection. Not in that context, because for him it was flashbacks to a childhood that was, at minimum, sexually inappropriate, and at worst... well, neither of us ever knew really. So what was left was the lie. The lie that it had been just fine with everyone else. That it was only me who had a problem with how he was. The lie that he couldn't acknowledge to himself. I believe that to be the truth of it... but when you're told again and again that it's you, it's hard not to take it in a little. Especially since I am not perfect and not free of issues of my own.
Writing these things is ripping my heart out. But I don't know what else to do. I write, and I write, and it has to be where I am clear because someone else might read, because otherwise... otherwise there is nothing that forces me to think about it, to put words that make sense down, and maybe, in the process, to exorcise the ghosts a little.
But today and yesterday. My hair still smells like smoke, and I am achy and tired. But it was good. Better than the first time. Even with my weird and disturbing claustrophobia at the end. I don't want to think too much of that, make too much of it, make a problem where there is none. I think that was just a result of my overthinking. And the rest... really good. And I was able to relax and love it. And it feels like a validation, that all the things before it were maybe not me.
And that makes me want to cry, but then, everything does.
Well, maybe not. Maybe it is about finding someone who's actually a good lover. Surprise. I mean, I have no relative scale here that makes sense. There's just the first part of my life (boring and insufficient), the middle part (clueless and troubled), and the recent part (damaged and incompatible). With Michael, especially... I mean, objectively, so many strikes against anything working out. The physical issues, but even more than that, the mental issues that made his tastes fetishistic and extreme and made it so difficult for him to have intimacy of a kind that anyone else could recognize, at least during sex. It makes me so sad to say that, to acknowledge the truth of that, one of the greatest losses in a marriage filled with loss. I feel, always, that I am betraying him, and I say these things, and I remember when we used to sleep holding hands all night, and my heart just aches.
So long ago and not so long ago.
But he always blamed me. Because, I think, he could not listen to me. Because he couldn't give me what I needed the most, the tenderness and affection. Not in that context, because for him it was flashbacks to a childhood that was, at minimum, sexually inappropriate, and at worst... well, neither of us ever knew really. So what was left was the lie. The lie that it had been just fine with everyone else. That it was only me who had a problem with how he was. The lie that he couldn't acknowledge to himself. I believe that to be the truth of it... but when you're told again and again that it's you, it's hard not to take it in a little. Especially since I am not perfect and not free of issues of my own.
Writing these things is ripping my heart out. But I don't know what else to do. I write, and I write, and it has to be where I am clear because someone else might read, because otherwise... otherwise there is nothing that forces me to think about it, to put words that make sense down, and maybe, in the process, to exorcise the ghosts a little.
But today and yesterday. My hair still smells like smoke, and I am achy and tired. But it was good. Better than the first time. Even with my weird and disturbing claustrophobia at the end. I don't want to think too much of that, make too much of it, make a problem where there is none. I think that was just a result of my overthinking. And the rest... really good. And I was able to relax and love it. And it feels like a validation, that all the things before it were maybe not me.
And that makes me want to cry, but then, everything does.
Friday, July 27, 2012
Next
Something has to change here.
I have never felt so emotionally bad in my life. And I absolutely cannot tell whether this is a (lack of) medication thing, or whether it's a PTSD thing, or whether it's just life and grief and so on. I feel just wrecked. All the time. And it's not getting better; if anything, it's getting worse.
And I hate to say it, but it makes me wonder about Michael. He stopped taking Cymbalta in October, and after that, everything got worse. It's again, hard to abstract one thing from another... the blood sugar issues, the hospitalization, so on... but I wonder. He said again and again how bad he felt, but he couldn't/wouldn't tolerate another medication. It is useless to speculate on it, but I wonder what role this played in his death. I know he tried to fight it.
I am not suicidal, not at all. But I am miserable. Deeply, horribly miserable. And just frightened by the oddest things, by closeness, intimacy... but at the same time, I'm so much worse when I'm alone. I'm also terrified of how awful everything seems so much of the time, and it's not about reality; it's about something inside.
I have to do something to break this cycle. I don't want it to be, go back on meds. Can't risk it, not now that my weight is falling, and I'm starting to feel physically better. It's going to have to be something different. Have to be.
I have never felt so emotionally bad in my life. And I absolutely cannot tell whether this is a (lack of) medication thing, or whether it's a PTSD thing, or whether it's just life and grief and so on. I feel just wrecked. All the time. And it's not getting better; if anything, it's getting worse.
And I hate to say it, but it makes me wonder about Michael. He stopped taking Cymbalta in October, and after that, everything got worse. It's again, hard to abstract one thing from another... the blood sugar issues, the hospitalization, so on... but I wonder. He said again and again how bad he felt, but he couldn't/wouldn't tolerate another medication. It is useless to speculate on it, but I wonder what role this played in his death. I know he tried to fight it.
I am not suicidal, not at all. But I am miserable. Deeply, horribly miserable. And just frightened by the oddest things, by closeness, intimacy... but at the same time, I'm so much worse when I'm alone. I'm also terrified of how awful everything seems so much of the time, and it's not about reality; it's about something inside.
I have to do something to break this cycle. I don't want it to be, go back on meds. Can't risk it, not now that my weight is falling, and I'm starting to feel physically better. It's going to have to be something different. Have to be.
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
Wrong
I know what I'm doing. I'm looking for a quick fix outside myself. I'm looking for someone to make it all feel better, and I know that this is the wrong thing to do. It was better before this occurred to me as an option, before I had those few happy days that made me remember what it's like to feel like that.
I don't know what I'm supposed to do next. I am sitting here waiting for an email from someone who should not even be emailing me. I'm looking in the wrong place for something that's the wrong thing, and I can't seem to stop myself from walking down this path.
And at the same time, the thought of anything with anyone makes me nauseated and scared, and I know that I am not in any way ready for anything at all emotional. I can see fractions of all of me spread too thin. I feel terrible, still. Not all the time, but enough. End of the day is hardest.
I need to be about me, not about someone else, whether it's a real someone or a quick fix. I know this. But I don't know how. I keep getting distracted by shiny objects. It's like going to the refrigerator for those nibbles. About buying the things that you know should not be in the house. I don't know how to stop.
I don't know what I'm supposed to do next. I am sitting here waiting for an email from someone who should not even be emailing me. I'm looking in the wrong place for something that's the wrong thing, and I can't seem to stop myself from walking down this path.
And at the same time, the thought of anything with anyone makes me nauseated and scared, and I know that I am not in any way ready for anything at all emotional. I can see fractions of all of me spread too thin. I feel terrible, still. Not all the time, but enough. End of the day is hardest.
I need to be about me, not about someone else, whether it's a real someone or a quick fix. I know this. But I don't know how. I keep getting distracted by shiny objects. It's like going to the refrigerator for those nibbles. About buying the things that you know should not be in the house. I don't know how to stop.
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
Just can't think
I have no idea where I am or why.
I'm sad and discouraged, and I can't seem to keep some sort of even mood.
On the other hand, there's this weird kind of elation from the reintroduction of other people into my life.
And on yet another hand... this is an octopus kind of problem... I'm confused and weary and scared. Getting up at 4.a.m. to drive home, waking up smelling of cigarettes and other smoke, dehydrated and hungover and sore. I mean, when you put it that way, I honestly can't tell if it sounds like a good thing or a bad thing.
Part of me is elated. There's a part of me that's always been a bad girl, who is freest like this, who would love nothing more than to dive into the deep end. Wherever and whenever. And it takes my mind off everything else, and that feels so good.
Part of me is terrified by the whole thing. Part of me says, dangerous behavior, things that can hurt, you are too old for this, and there's too much that you need to do to get back to healthy. (And who would want you anyway, for more than a night?) Bad voices, negative voices.
Part of me is so discouraged and lost. I feel like everything that I do starts out positive and ends in failures, large or small. You can say that's wrong.. but there is some truth to it.
I can't seem to get a perspective on anything, and there's no one I can really talk to about it, who I really feel comfortable talking to all of it about. I don't know what to do.
I'm sad and discouraged, and I can't seem to keep some sort of even mood.
On the other hand, there's this weird kind of elation from the reintroduction of other people into my life.
And on yet another hand... this is an octopus kind of problem... I'm confused and weary and scared. Getting up at 4.a.m. to drive home, waking up smelling of cigarettes and other smoke, dehydrated and hungover and sore. I mean, when you put it that way, I honestly can't tell if it sounds like a good thing or a bad thing.
Part of me is elated. There's a part of me that's always been a bad girl, who is freest like this, who would love nothing more than to dive into the deep end. Wherever and whenever. And it takes my mind off everything else, and that feels so good.
Part of me is terrified by the whole thing. Part of me says, dangerous behavior, things that can hurt, you are too old for this, and there's too much that you need to do to get back to healthy. (And who would want you anyway, for more than a night?) Bad voices, negative voices.
Part of me is so discouraged and lost. I feel like everything that I do starts out positive and ends in failures, large or small. You can say that's wrong.. but there is some truth to it.
I can't seem to get a perspective on anything, and there's no one I can really talk to about it, who I really feel comfortable talking to all of it about. I don't know what to do.
Friday, July 13, 2012
This is not all right.
I could list the good things today. The vertigo is not so bad. J's AP scores. Most of a good day. Until it stopped being good.
And it didn't stop being good for any real reason of importance. Just tired and annoyed and probably low blood sugar, and, BANG, there I am, back to hell. And once I tip over that point, there is no fixing it. I've tried. Talked to people. Did something nice for someone. Ate. I wonder if it would make any sense to go to the gym at this time? When I've already been today?
I don't know what to do. I want so badly to have someone wrap their arms around me and hold me and tell me that everything is going to be all right. Even if it's not true. Even if it's only about this one moment. I want my mother. I want... someone. I want to be in England a lifetime ago with John, when it seemed like anything was possible. I want to be sitting on the couch with Michael, curled against him, watching TV and sleeping. In England again, a lifetime ago. I want to not feel so damaged and alone. I want to have just one problem that I can hand to someone else to solve.
I should go to bed. There is no point to this circle of grief and anger and despair. It's nothing but awful, and I don't know how to stop it. I can't go back on the antidepressants. There's no point. I don't know if it would even help.
At some point, you realize that there aren't an infinite number of years to make everything right. You can't start over again and again infinitely.
I can still see the lines of my wedding ring on my finger.
And it didn't stop being good for any real reason of importance. Just tired and annoyed and probably low blood sugar, and, BANG, there I am, back to hell. And once I tip over that point, there is no fixing it. I've tried. Talked to people. Did something nice for someone. Ate. I wonder if it would make any sense to go to the gym at this time? When I've already been today?
I don't know what to do. I want so badly to have someone wrap their arms around me and hold me and tell me that everything is going to be all right. Even if it's not true. Even if it's only about this one moment. I want my mother. I want... someone. I want to be in England a lifetime ago with John, when it seemed like anything was possible. I want to be sitting on the couch with Michael, curled against him, watching TV and sleeping. In England again, a lifetime ago. I want to not feel so damaged and alone. I want to have just one problem that I can hand to someone else to solve.
I should go to bed. There is no point to this circle of grief and anger and despair. It's nothing but awful, and I don't know how to stop it. I can't go back on the antidepressants. There's no point. I don't know if it would even help.
At some point, you realize that there aren't an infinite number of years to make everything right. You can't start over again and again infinitely.
I can still see the lines of my wedding ring on my finger.
Thursday, July 12, 2012
Fear
I am trying so hard. I am trying so very hard. I am keeping going and putting one foot in front of the other and just going. Trying to make myself feel better. Trying to make myself healthier. Trying to make myself saner.
But by this time every night, it is always the same. I'm worn down, I'm worn out, I'm sad and angry, and I'm afraid. Afraid that it will always be like this. Afraid of a past I can't reconcile or explain, at least not to the person who mattered. I feel haunted and sad and immobile, and I just don't know what to do.
I'm clutching at straws, the straws of companionship that just might make me feel better for a tiny bit of time. But that's all wrong, too. I'm not the person I was a decade ago. I feel so damaged, and I'm not sure if I can be someone light and fun and attractive. And I don't feel attractive most of the time, although it's coming back. I felt attractive with Tim, because he'd seen me; he'd met me. I wasn't words on a page, putting a best foot forward.
And so what do I do? What is next? How do I make some leap from here?
But by this time every night, it is always the same. I'm worn down, I'm worn out, I'm sad and angry, and I'm afraid. Afraid that it will always be like this. Afraid of a past I can't reconcile or explain, at least not to the person who mattered. I feel haunted and sad and immobile, and I just don't know what to do.
I'm clutching at straws, the straws of companionship that just might make me feel better for a tiny bit of time. But that's all wrong, too. I'm not the person I was a decade ago. I feel so damaged, and I'm not sure if I can be someone light and fun and attractive. And I don't feel attractive most of the time, although it's coming back. I felt attractive with Tim, because he'd seen me; he'd met me. I wasn't words on a page, putting a best foot forward.
And so what do I do? What is next? How do I make some leap from here?
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Circles
I feel like I'm going in circles. Big circles and little circles and ovals and circle things that are not circles. And none of it gets me anywhere. Because, you know, circles.
I think that things settle in my head, and then I remember something that happened, usually some Michael thing, and I get so angry. Especially when I think about how he deliberately stalked me those last months, read everything that I wrote. I feel invaded. And worse than that, it's like when I used to go to England and think that everything was fine, and then later, when I was back here, he'd tell me all the things that were not fine. It's that horrible feeling that you're living in a trap, that reality is nothing like you think it is.
There, that made me cry. I got almost all the way through today without crying. For better or worse. Even though every single thing today has been a giant effort of will.
I just want something to be fun. I want to stop sitting around all the time crying or trying to push myself a little harder to get some work done or pretend that my hip/knee doesn't hurt or that I'm not fucking lonely. That's the thing that I really don't want to admit. I am so lonely. I've been lonely for a long time. Lonely for a companion, for a partner.
But it's so dangerous to think that. So, so dangerous. It leads me down paths that scare me, that feel wrong and creepy, because I don't want a relationship now. I don't think I could bear it, even if there were someone out there offering. And so... well, what's left? Plus of any of the choices, could I handle that crapshoot of trying to find someone, someone safe who is still what I want/need?
What would be better is to forget about it. But I can't seem to do that. I feel so embarrassed and awful even having this conversation with myself, admitting that I just want an adult to pay attention to me, to make me feel like an attractive and desirable person again. I feel like I shouldn't be thinking this, shouldn't be wanting this. That it's too soon and too stupid and that I'm too old for this.
And really believing that doesn't change how I feel.
Circles. Vertigo, and circles.
I think that things settle in my head, and then I remember something that happened, usually some Michael thing, and I get so angry. Especially when I think about how he deliberately stalked me those last months, read everything that I wrote. I feel invaded. And worse than that, it's like when I used to go to England and think that everything was fine, and then later, when I was back here, he'd tell me all the things that were not fine. It's that horrible feeling that you're living in a trap, that reality is nothing like you think it is.
There, that made me cry. I got almost all the way through today without crying. For better or worse. Even though every single thing today has been a giant effort of will.
I just want something to be fun. I want to stop sitting around all the time crying or trying to push myself a little harder to get some work done or pretend that my hip/knee doesn't hurt or that I'm not fucking lonely. That's the thing that I really don't want to admit. I am so lonely. I've been lonely for a long time. Lonely for a companion, for a partner.
But it's so dangerous to think that. So, so dangerous. It leads me down paths that scare me, that feel wrong and creepy, because I don't want a relationship now. I don't think I could bear it, even if there were someone out there offering. And so... well, what's left? Plus of any of the choices, could I handle that crapshoot of trying to find someone, someone safe who is still what I want/need?
What would be better is to forget about it. But I can't seem to do that. I feel so embarrassed and awful even having this conversation with myself, admitting that I just want an adult to pay attention to me, to make me feel like an attractive and desirable person again. I feel like I shouldn't be thinking this, shouldn't be wanting this. That it's too soon and too stupid and that I'm too old for this.
And really believing that doesn't change how I feel.
Circles. Vertigo, and circles.
Sunday, July 8, 2012
Bad
It is July 8th. It is almost four months since Michael's death. It is less humid today. My house is a disaster. And I am so depressed that I want to die. Or maybe it's that I feel so ill. Not really sure.
I can't tell what's real. I can't tell if this is how I truly feel and the Cymbalta has been masking it all the time, or whether this is all about withdrawal. Or a combo. It's certainly partly the drugs... my head swims and feels like I want it to fall off, and I'm nauseated and headachy and just pretty crappy-feeling. The only thing that makes me feel better is food, and that's pretty much counter to everything that I'm trying to do here. I want to go to bed and pull the covers over my head and wait this out. I would do it if I knew that there was a finite time... a few days, a week. I've stopped taking it entirely as of today, and that's got to speed this up, because I don't think I can do gradual withdrawal like this. Or I'm not doing it right, also possible. I'm taking fish oil and Benadryl, and next week, when the package comes, I'll try the amino acids. Honestly, I'd try anything in the universe that wasn't another antidepressant at this point.
The stupid thing is that I think I'd be all right if my head didn't feel so bad, and I can't tell whether that's about the drugs (good bet) or just everything else. The trouble is that the whole path starts with Tim. Before then, I was doing ok. But that's when I started weaning off the Cymbalta, plus the whole up and down thing with this so-called... relationship? Friendship? After the beginning teen angst, it's more the combo of the Cymbalta withdrawal and the realizing that sex would actually help me feel a lot better. And that second part, combined with the first, is making me consider a lot of behaviors that may not be at all wise. It's a big internet out there... although it's changed a lot since last I was looking for a friend there.
I am stupid even to think that. Honestly, I was so much better off when I had the year thing in my head.
Also, I think that there's something wrong with Tim. I mean, not disturbing wrong, but either he's really not particularly interested or he's afraid to actually be with me, and either way is not working. If he's not interested, I see no reason for him to keep texting... so there we are. I have invited him to do things, I've practically offered to sleep with him, and I've gotten no response at all. Lots of chat about movies. So either he's afraid of me or being with me, or something else is weird. And I do not need another stray puppy. I really do NOT need another stray puppy.
I'm feeling a little better since I started writing this... I don't know if it's the drugs or too much food or the Tim thing or what, but except for the excruciating head, things almost feel ok.
I can't tell what's real. I can't tell if this is how I truly feel and the Cymbalta has been masking it all the time, or whether this is all about withdrawal. Or a combo. It's certainly partly the drugs... my head swims and feels like I want it to fall off, and I'm nauseated and headachy and just pretty crappy-feeling. The only thing that makes me feel better is food, and that's pretty much counter to everything that I'm trying to do here. I want to go to bed and pull the covers over my head and wait this out. I would do it if I knew that there was a finite time... a few days, a week. I've stopped taking it entirely as of today, and that's got to speed this up, because I don't think I can do gradual withdrawal like this. Or I'm not doing it right, also possible. I'm taking fish oil and Benadryl, and next week, when the package comes, I'll try the amino acids. Honestly, I'd try anything in the universe that wasn't another antidepressant at this point.
The stupid thing is that I think I'd be all right if my head didn't feel so bad, and I can't tell whether that's about the drugs (good bet) or just everything else. The trouble is that the whole path starts with Tim. Before then, I was doing ok. But that's when I started weaning off the Cymbalta, plus the whole up and down thing with this so-called... relationship? Friendship? After the beginning teen angst, it's more the combo of the Cymbalta withdrawal and the realizing that sex would actually help me feel a lot better. And that second part, combined with the first, is making me consider a lot of behaviors that may not be at all wise. It's a big internet out there... although it's changed a lot since last I was looking for a friend there.
I am stupid even to think that. Honestly, I was so much better off when I had the year thing in my head.
Also, I think that there's something wrong with Tim. I mean, not disturbing wrong, but either he's really not particularly interested or he's afraid to actually be with me, and either way is not working. If he's not interested, I see no reason for him to keep texting... so there we are. I have invited him to do things, I've practically offered to sleep with him, and I've gotten no response at all. Lots of chat about movies. So either he's afraid of me or being with me, or something else is weird. And I do not need another stray puppy. I really do NOT need another stray puppy.
I'm feeling a little better since I started writing this... I don't know if it's the drugs or too much food or the Tim thing or what, but except for the excruciating head, things almost feel ok.
Friday, July 6, 2012
Anger
It's all I can feel right now.
A whole list of angry.
At Michael, and we don't have to go through the reasons.
At temporary guy, because I tasted happy for a minute and realized how much I missed it.
At familyperson, for being so damn irresponsible in so many ways.
At myself, for not being able to deal with this with more grace.
At life, for dealing me this. I can't see the way out right now. I'm trying; I really am. Probably not hard enough. But I want to scream and cry and say how not fair it all is. All while knowing that it is going to do no good at all, just make me feel worse, because I'm not even good at wallowing in self-pity.
And I wish my missing kitties would come home, and I blame everyone for that.
A whole list of angry.
At Michael, and we don't have to go through the reasons.
At temporary guy, because I tasted happy for a minute and realized how much I missed it.
At familyperson, for being so damn irresponsible in so many ways.
At myself, for not being able to deal with this with more grace.
At life, for dealing me this. I can't see the way out right now. I'm trying; I really am. Probably not hard enough. But I want to scream and cry and say how not fair it all is. All while knowing that it is going to do no good at all, just make me feel worse, because I'm not even good at wallowing in self-pity.
And I wish my missing kitties would come home, and I blame everyone for that.
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