Got A Letter From A Messenger
Feb. 24th, 2011 02:57 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rainspiritEeesh. Let's see if I can do this.
Made all efforts to sabotage myself, it seems. Too embarrassing to go into details. On the bus right now, writing this out, listening to music. Dragging a huge bag on wheels around in, what, five inches of snow? Smart. Can't remember why I wanted to use this instead of a backpack. Experimentation?
My shoulders are stronger than my arms, I think. I can do backpack weight, but this is a whole different kind of muscle. Strange and unwieldy. Sigh.
Going to go see Mom.
Yesterday, I was thankful for many things. Still am, but they are slightly overshadowed by anxiety today. And fear. I know I can get myself to do this work, but can I do it without inflicting self-loathing upon myself? I hope not. I hate doing that. I'm scared that's where I'm going.
Endless cycles. Encless habitual emotional torture. Inflicted over and over upon myself until I start catching the cycle. Only so many times you can get swatted by a newspaper until you start instinctively flinching right before it's swung. Only so many times until you can dodge away.
Hungry. Only had cereal. Didn't bring my travel mug, even though I made tea for myself and everything. Fucking. Shit.
But it could be worse. Could've left books. Could've left notes. Could've left clothes. (Valid concern - I did get them from the laundry at the very last minute.)
I have less than an hour before the ferry supposedly leaves after docking. One prays it's later than I.
I'm very, very fearful, but I'm trying to keep it in. Trying to keep it under control. But whenever I push down my emotions, they always come back later, harder, meaner. I have to find a way to defuse it before I see Mom and the puppy - although maybe that'll be enough to get me over myself. If I get there.
This is just tiresome. Why do I let myself do the same things that I know will keep me on the computer for hours on end? It's addiction, yes. It's unconscious, habitual, entry ways into never-never-land. Sometimes I don't have the will - oftentimes I come home and that's my refuge, but there's things to do. Things that aren't many things, just small things I could be doing over the course of the week. And I'm not doing them. I'm not reviewing my notes, I'm not reading stories I missed. I'm barely feeding myself and doing laundry and cleaning dishes and everything.
Always doing things at the last minute. In a rush. Staying up too late because there's one thing I need to do before going to bed but I don't want to do that yet because I'm still reading something on the internet and yet I'm also tired and I want to sleep but there's one last thing I need to do right after this article or game or article on a game or or or or--
I'm so. I'm so. I'm so.
I hope I'm not so fucked.
Damnit.
Made all efforts to sabotage myself, it seems. Too embarrassing to go into details. On the bus right now, writing this out, listening to music. Dragging a huge bag on wheels around in, what, five inches of snow? Smart. Can't remember why I wanted to use this instead of a backpack. Experimentation?
My shoulders are stronger than my arms, I think. I can do backpack weight, but this is a whole different kind of muscle. Strange and unwieldy. Sigh.
Going to go see Mom.
Yesterday, I was thankful for many things. Still am, but they are slightly overshadowed by anxiety today. And fear. I know I can get myself to do this work, but can I do it without inflicting self-loathing upon myself? I hope not. I hate doing that. I'm scared that's where I'm going.
Endless cycles. Encless habitual emotional torture. Inflicted over and over upon myself until I start catching the cycle. Only so many times you can get swatted by a newspaper until you start instinctively flinching right before it's swung. Only so many times until you can dodge away.
Hungry. Only had cereal. Didn't bring my travel mug, even though I made tea for myself and everything. Fucking. Shit.
But it could be worse. Could've left books. Could've left notes. Could've left clothes. (Valid concern - I did get them from the laundry at the very last minute.)
I have less than an hour before the ferry supposedly leaves after docking. One prays it's later than I.
I'm very, very fearful, but I'm trying to keep it in. Trying to keep it under control. But whenever I push down my emotions, they always come back later, harder, meaner. I have to find a way to defuse it before I see Mom and the puppy - although maybe that'll be enough to get me over myself. If I get there.
This is just tiresome. Why do I let myself do the same things that I know will keep me on the computer for hours on end? It's addiction, yes. It's unconscious, habitual, entry ways into never-never-land. Sometimes I don't have the will - oftentimes I come home and that's my refuge, but there's things to do. Things that aren't many things, just small things I could be doing over the course of the week. And I'm not doing them. I'm not reviewing my notes, I'm not reading stories I missed. I'm barely feeding myself and doing laundry and cleaning dishes and everything.
Always doing things at the last minute. In a rush. Staying up too late because there's one thing I need to do before going to bed but I don't want to do that yet because I'm still reading something on the internet and yet I'm also tired and I want to sleep but there's one last thing I need to do right after this article or game or article on a game or or or or--
I'm so. I'm so. I'm so.
I hope I'm not so fucked.
Damnit.
and...
Date: 2011-02-26 04:33 pm (UTC)Re: and...
Date: 2011-02-28 11:18 am (UTC)Hope you enjoyed Galiano and Karaoke
Love,
Dad